


Mountains And Molehills

by WonderAss



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Developing Relationship, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Drama, Filling In The Canonical Gaps, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Older!Abigail, Older!Marston, Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Poly, References to Canon, Self-Esteem Issues, Single POV, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Song Lyrics, Supplemental Canon, also:, and, shades of:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-09-29 02:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17194859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: A good father can lie, kill and rob, but theonething he doesn't do is ditch his family. Arthur Morgan has a few ideas as to what kind of father John Marston will be when the man disappears for a year...as well as whohecould've been, if things had turned out just a little different.





	1. A Penny For Your Thoughts, A Dime For A Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Inspirations: "Come Meh Way" by Sudan Archives + "Saints And Sinners" by David Francey

_Family of coyotes trailed me for a while today. Not sure what in the hell they were thinking, but they made a funny picture all the same, trotting behind Penny like a line of schoolkids on their way to class. If I were a religious man I'd take it as a sign that my roots are showing themselves. Roots of community, loyalty, all that's to follow on life's crooked trail. I'm just about upon the Van der Lindes, though how much of my family is there is still a mystery. Always is. Got the road to thank for that, this time._

_Thinking about Dutch and Hosea's health. They won't admit it, but they're getting on in their years. Hosea's been coughing a lot lately, while my concerns for Dutch are more the mental kind. Looking forward to seeing Abigail. I hope childbirth hasn't set her back too hard. Going to ask John how his knife throwing is going. Javier will have some opinions, that's for sure. That man could nail a butterfly on the wing. Can't wait to catch up with Tilly. Her smile is a hell of a motivator, Dutch's long-winded speeches be damned._

_It's a lot of fond thoughts I have warming my chest today. All things considered, I could certainly be far worse. That graze I got is about healed up, though it twinges sometimes, like a parent's hand on my shoulder. Reminding me to stay sharp. Always. Even when I return to the security and rhythm of the gang, I won't soon forget. If everyone's kept their heads low and stayed out of trouble we could be coasting on that mansion money for a good four or five months. Enough time to move beyond licking our wounds. Live a little. Dream a little._

_We'll see._

*

Mountain air. Ain't nothing quite like it on this green earth.

Being cooped up in the city has me huffing and puffing the breeze like a winded horse. It's been blowing without pause since morning, though there isn't so much as a wisp in the sky to show for it. Penny sure is enjoying the sun; there's a kick to her step that hasn't been _all_ throughout Blackwater and the Great Plains. Only folk I've glimpsed on the open road today are a pair of workerhands and a lone traveler, none of whom had time for so much as a hello. That's more than fine by me. The road ahead is calling sweetly, and I am _enjoying_ the conversation.

If good weather's the greeting, smooth dirt and rustling trees is the music by the campfire.

The Van der Linde gang's stationed up near Big Valley now...at least, I'm still hoping. Running reconnaissance after that mansion heist _and_ getting side-tracked on a dozen and a half side-jobs has a way of keeping a feller out of the loop. Coming up on two months since we've seen each other in-person and, I won't lie, I'm feeling a little bit of that _hard_ , solemn heartsickness. Like a shot of whisky if it went down cold, just sitting worse and worse in my gut. Took a little time to find their new location, too, which hasn't helped matters. I might be like to shed a tear of joy at the sight of Uncle's filthy long johns at this point.

"Think thoughts alone can summon the devil?" I hoot down at Penny. She tosses her head and snorts. "Yeah, I hope not."

A humble assortment of wood cabins situated between hearty rock clusters breaks up the stretch of nature I've been cantering through. Strawberry is an interesting little place, somehow brand new and _still_ never quite sure if it wants to be a symbol of the past or the future; I've hardly bothered with the place as more than a pit stop, and that sure don't seem to be changing. There's no developing city grunge to deter the horse and I, still, though the need for familiarity tugs me as surely as any reins. I give a nod to the sheriff lounging near the welcome sign, caught in a conversation about as bored as he is, then give Penny's flanks a kick to get her moving along the far trail.

Maybe another time.

There's no vein of smoke to spot yet, but I _can_ catch a whiff of that sloppy Pearson cooking already. As mysterious as the ocean depths and as oily as Marston's hair (though it probably tastes better). This homesickness might be getting out of hand if _that_ greasy swill has my mouth watering. The doe I shot on the way ain't the most creative of gifts, but it's not the only one I'm bringing back home. Still, it'll probably go over well. Gang's a little bigger than it was a year ago. More mouths to feed, more squabbles to manage. Penny's ear flicks back when I chuckle. Hah. We've come a _long_ way from Hosea, Dutch and the two terrors.

"One more terrible than the other." I mumble. Penny snorts again. "Sorry, girl. I'm ruining the atmosphere, ain't I?"

Strawberry is soon little more than a half-memory behind me. Still not many to pass by on the road; I see more animals than I do people, from a pair of deer who quickly flee at the sight of me to a goat that really shouldn't be this far from the cliffs. It sports a proud pair of horns, curling in nearly a full circle. My fingers itch toward the journal, but the doe behind me keeps the artistic trigger finger at bay. The fresher, the better. My family deserves _that_ much, at least. I offer a short salute to the goat's white flag retreat and carry on, committing whatever details I can to the quiet corners of my memory for later.

I catch smoke flitting upward at the very end of the trail, not nearly strong enough to be a campfire. Penny reaches the top of the hill and the ground evens out, a bold red silhouette standing stark against the green. As much as we move around (and _will_ for some time yet, I figure) there's still a feeling of home that comes with the sight. A loyal community. A time worn, meticulous process of thievery and cooperation, sturdier than tanned leather. My beard ain't so grown I could be confused for an ornery bystander, though I wave a hand, nonetheless. The gesture's returned instantly and he's soon riding down to meet me.

I know I haven't been among them in some time, but deep down I wonder why the air don't feel right.

"You sure took your time, Arthur." His red poncho is scuffed, but his hat is as clean as ever. "Was starting to think you moved up to a bigger and tougher gang."

"Bigger and tougher than the _Van der Lindes?_ " I honk, reaching over and giving Javier's shoulder a hard shake. "Outta here with that." A rich, enticing tang meets my nose. "...Hey. You got the good stuff with you, you gotta share it, all right? Ain't nice to leave a feller high and dry."

"Of course not. Got this off a traveler on the run." The man takes another pull from his pipe, then hands it to me. "You _know_ it's good when they're being chased."

"Mm." I puff and run the tip of my tongue along my lips. "Taste better, don't it?"

"Definitely."

We catch up and talk about the day in-between puffs, tobacco's ease sinking into our bones. Javier tells me he's been scouting for a good few hours now, with little other than a sweaty brow to show for it, and he's doubly cheered at the surprise company. Had he nipped back to base for lunch a little earlier he could've missed me. When I ask what's going on in the gang he laughs hard enough to jostle his horse, then commends my intuition.

"You can tell something's up, just like that?" Another laugh clouds his face. "You always got it, Arthur."

Javier compared me to a wolf once. None of that lone wolf talk, neither; I never knew _where_ that phrase came from. Wolves travel in packs. They watch their own, protect their babies. Some say they even mate for life. _Ha_ , people had a lot to learn from them, didn't they! Nah, Javier told me while we were scouting the perimeter that sorry winter in Cumberland that I had their nose and ears. I can, or I _suppose_ I do, sense things that people don't usually sense. Then he compared Marston to a wolf, which made me realize Javier sometimes doesn't know a damn thing he's talking about.

He says it again, not to my surprise, and isn't deterred when I wave him off.

"Now that I think about it, you're more like a bear." He leans back and sighs out another cloud. "Big, strong, smart."

"I'm certainly _one_ of those things." I mutter, watching the sky sway.

The following half-conversations get away from me, admittedly. We smoke enough to make everything a little floaty, not _so_ much so we can't steer the horses around the bend and up toward where the camp's settled. It's funny to think about intuition and the like again as I dismount, crunching on this wet grass and pushing it around beneath my heel, trying to figure out why it don't _bend_ quite right, neither. Penny shivers and shakes her head hard enough to send her mane flicking. I give her neck a fond slap.

"You feeling it, too, huh?"

One big, brown eye rolls my way. I think I'd rather be compared to a horse, all things told.

"Oh! Is that _Arthur?_ "

"Hey, now, look who it is!"

"Mr. Morgan, _good_ to see you!"

No, it don't make a lick of sense. They call my name just the same, and I feel just as fine. I keep a hand on her flank as the gang drops what they're doing one-by-one to come up to me. Tilly is as stunning as ever. Where that woman gets the patience to do her hair into all those lovely braids and keep them looking brand new despite _all_ she's got to do, I'll never know. She's got this darling flower dress on, with a wine red shawl swaying over her shoulders. I'll have to put that outfit in the journal when I got a spare moment, though hell knows when _that'll_ be, with everyone in the camp, even the birds, turning 'round to look me over. Any stranger strolling past right now could confuse me for a prince.

"Arthur, get on over here, it's been _some_ time." I hug her tight and clap her back. Damn, she even smells like flowers. Tilly pulls back and peers at me, canny as a raven. "...Well, _you've_ been across the country and back. We'll have to roll out a sleeping bag for the dust."

I chuckle good and long. Ah, the _laughing_ feels familiar, too. Maybe my acute animal senses ain't much more than an empty stomach and a nostalgic heart. The camp is nicely situated, with the fire pit in place and the caravans and tents in their usual sloppy semi-circle. Not a bad location, with a copse of trees flanking the west and enough of a rocky slope around the rest to spot visitors early. The horses are tethered and dozing off in the afternoon sun, relaxed enough to relax me. It's just a few new additions I don't recognize. One caravan's all dolled up like a carriage out of Saint Denis, with a cushy violet interior that flares odd against the foliage. Must be the new member's, unless Javier decided to extend his posh sentimentalities to decor.

"Just about." I peer around some more. "This is one _fine_ camp y'all made here."

"It'll do." She shrugs. "I'd _ask_ if you'd like to play a round, but it seems like you could use a dip in the river and some tea, first."

"Now, Miss Tilly, I _do_ believe you're trying to sweet talk me right now." I take off my hat and hold it to my chest. "A little tea for little ol' me?"

"Oh, nonsense. I just got these marvelous teabags from a grower in Strawberry and want to show them off. You'll do, I suppose." She pats my shoulder with a pretty little smile. "You sit tight. I'll be back."

I stroll over to the new caravan, just to look it over proper, and blink at the sight of a curly, blonde head. A young woman (perhaps around Tilly's age, though she's eternally baby-faced and not the best of measurements) is slouched inside with a can of something or another, rubbing it all over her shoulders. She must've been a barmaid in the past, or another _life_ , with that can-can dress and low-slung top showing off more freckles than a midnight sky.

"Why, hello, there." She sets the can on her lap and tilts her head to peer at me through the shadow. "You that whip-crackin', gunslingin' Arthur Morgan I've heard so much about?"

"Sure. I'm afraid I haven't, uh, been caught up yet on new changes, Miss...?" I hold my hand out. She holds out one, then hastily swaps it for the other.

"Ah, sorry. Don't want to get this dreck all over you." Her grip is firm and confident. "Karen Jones. Call me Karen, please. Full titles are just awkward."

"Hey now, _I_ was going to introduce you two!" Tilly cries from across the camp, kettle in hand. Karen's laugh is sharp.

"No, I see how it is, Tilly! I gotta earn the rights to a proper introduction 'round here."

I smile, in spite of myself. It's always a new addition that has me thinking about all the little customs I take for granted in the gang. Well, _that_ and suffering through a big city leaking silver and arrogance out of every wretched crack. We're a rough-and-tumble bunch, about as slapdash as a knitted blanket, perhaps even more colorful. We have our rules and quirks -- songs by the campfire were all but a _tradition_ \-- even as we dispensed with so many of society's precious caveats. Some were conjured up by Dutch as a way of giving voice to kinship. Others just came pre-packaged with each member. Unique as a scar, and only sometimes as pretty.

"Don't let me get in the way, Arthur." Karen adds, scooping a thick chunk out of the can with two fingers. "I know you just got back from a big trip."

"Ah, rather. Don't let _me_ bother _you_." I take another peek at her arms. "That's one nasty sunburn."

"Oh, don't you worry." She winks, as if the pain ain't even there. "I've all but perfected this."

Susan's over near the horses and rummaging around in a box, bending down more than is probably good for her rickety back (and I know better than to bring _that_ up). Don't know where those two Callander boys are, though it's likely nowhere good, and I can't see Jenny anywhere. It ain't all mysterious, though. Hardly the middle of the afternoon and Uncle's already boozing it up; I can't see the hairy bastard, but I don't make it halfway across the camp without bumping into _three_ empty bottles.

" _Uncle!_ " I holler. "Lazy bastard, I'm gone for _two months_ and you're right back to your bullshit..." I pick the bottles up, because I ain't about to have me or anyone _else_ tripping on these. Characteristically, the man is smelled before he's seen. When I stand back up Uncle has seen fit to grace me with his presence, hat askew and a big, stupid smile on his big, stupid face.

"Good to see you, too, Morgan." He laughs, attempting to wave me close. "Come on, bring it in."

"Absolutely not."

"Oh, you're just as ornery and cold as ever. Should've known even the sands of time couldn't warm you. Also, those ain't mine."

"Excuse me?"

"I said those ain't mine!" His beady eyes flick to the left, then the right. He leans in, close enough for me to smell something right foul in that raggedy beard of his. "Reverend's been having a little, uh... _trouble_ kicking the habit. Go easy on him."

...Ah.

"Got it. I still don't believe one of these ain't yours, though." I snicker at Uncle's crestfallen face. "Yeah. Vacation time's over, Uncle. I'm back, so find yourself a chore before I confuse you for a workhorse and put a bit in your mouth."

Tilly's got a right mischievous smile on her face when I walk over and shove the bottles into the waste barrel. No doubt she's got a few stories waiting for me once I get properly settled. There are plenty of gossips in the gang, but she was always one of the best. Mostly because she actually told the _truth_.

"Got my obligatory jab at Uncle and I just found out Reverend's got another demon to conquer. Where the _hell's_ John so I can complete the circle?" I grunt. "Tell me he ain't headbutting a goat somewhere and calling it practice."

The woman's brown eyes turn flinty. She opens her mouth to answer, but it's drowned right out by an off-key bellow.

" _Arthur Morgan!_ "

Well, if it ain't the king himself, strolling out to greet his next-of-kin. I look up to the far edge of camp, where the trees frame the circle in a smudge of green and yellow. A nearly-finished cigar dangles loose from Dutch's lips and his omnipresent black hat is currently retired. He spreads his arms out wide and gives me a knowing look. Ah, hell. He's coming in for it. I pretend to look over his shoulder, shielding my eyes and glancing every which way, and he gives me a scoff that would get anyone else shaking in their boots.

"You select some very quaint times to get _churlish_ on me, Arthur." Dutch huffs, hands frozen in mid-air like he's trying to flag down a rider. "I hope you brought back more than just attitude."

A gray head pops up alongside him, weary-yet-fond.

"An attitude _and_ a big, healthy doe, but the looks of it."

I stomp over and promptly give Hosea a big hug. Dutch doesn't so much as blink, leaning back on his heels and sighing smoke into the air. It's both curiously easy _and_ difficult to rile this man. Far too much work, really.

"More than that, though I'd certainly call them the main course." I say, tugging back to look Hosea over. "How are you?"

"Well enough, well enough. Better now that I see you safe and sound." He studies me over in turn, seeing things only a father can. "You're still in one piece, which is better than I was thinking."

"I don't feel like losing an arm or an ear yet." I fling a thumb over one shoulder. "Got a few things over on Penny. Some cash, too. Should be enough for the month."

Dutch's mouth curls with approval, reaching over and clapping me on the back. I take it without comment. Hopefully he'll be caught up in whatever dream's got him in a chokehold than singing my praises. ...Mostly 'cause I'd rather not go into the rabbit I _also_ shot and _lost_ to a damn chance hawk. Could've downed the bird, too, if I got over my indignation. Feathered demon flew off like it'd planned the whole thing. I have a sneaking suspicion it won't be a bullet or cougar that'll finish me off, but good, old-fashioned hubris.

"'Oy! Arthur! Need help with that doe?" Pearson calls over by the food cart, already coated in a thick sheen of sweat with a rag around his neck. Man was like a walking furnace. Tilly and Karen promptly jump to their feet, jogging up to Penny to relieve her of the load.

"No, it's fine, I got that-" I start, stepping forward. They both wave me off in a perfect mirror image.

Those two are thick as thieves. That's already putting the new gal in my good graces, because Tilly's heart was a careful mix of big and considerate; she loved many, but _meticulously_ , as someone who'd been through what she had only could. It inspired me then, if I'm being honest, and it inspires me now. Anger hits me heavy. Makes me go blind. She always reminds me to let it pass. See _beyond_ it for what makes it flare so hard in the first place, then use that knowledge to keep what's mine. However long Karen's going to be around, I'm looking forward to the smiles she'll put on my loved ones' faces.

My shoulder is given a gentle shake. I blink at Hosea.

"You just got here and you're already miles away." His eyes twinkle. "Come now. Tell us how you've been. I presume Tilly's already told you about the tea she bought?"

"Sure. If _that's_ the biggest story you got for me I'm both relieved and disappointed."

"Pick relief. Far more preferable."

A successful heist _and_ clean getaway still has us set up nice. Hosea tells me their biggest issue was winding up through these mountain passes after one of the caravans got caught in a ditch. Dutch has taken his time brewing up another plan -- when _ain't_ he -- but, for once, seems content to stay here a little while longer for the benefit of Abigail and her new charge. Thing about babies is they tend to make people buckle down and get real pragmatic, real quick. Shit, what was I even thinking? _Jack_ is the camp prince. I'd qualify more for the court jester, if Uncle didn't already land that role with flying colors.

"Can't be running back and forth with a newborn." Hosea stresses. "Not good for the boy's health."

"He'll learn to walk quicker than any other kid, I imagine. That Van der Linde culture will set in soon and he'll be singing by the campfire by three." He flashes a grin, toothy as a dog. "Waxing philosophy by four."

"What kind of philosophy, Dutch?" I scratch at my chin. "The book kind or the life kind?"

"The kind that molds the world, son." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "The _dreaming_ kind."

The rest of the rundown is more or less what I've come to expect. Davey and Mac won't be back for another day, devoted to picking up small jobs as far away as possible to keep discretion. Today's diet of jerky (and weed) has my stomach whimpering for mercy when something savory picks up on the breeze: time has flown and Pearson's got a sloppy deer stew about ready to go. One-by-one, my family drifts to the fire in their usual way. Reverend melting out of the trees from wherever he'd been hiding with his uneven gait (and another bottle in hand). Javier leaving his horse to graze, smooth and unhurried. Karen in a confident saunter I already can't confuse with anyone else.

Tilly pushes a mug in my hands, then busies herself refilling everyone's cups. I mutter appreciation and situate myself on one of the logs, watching Pearson set up shop. It doesn't take long for Susan and Bill to find their spots, the former standing to the side as she always does and the latter squatting beside me.

"It's going to be a _good_ night tonight. Draw us something from your travels, Sir Wanderlust." Uncle laughs. My lip curls.

"I ain't a show pony. Words'll do."

Stew's shit. Tea's lovely, though. Not normally my thing -- whisky and coffee have more bite -- but it's hot and has a pretty smell, like this early spring with flower buds just starting to poke out. I take a pull and wince appreciatively, getting a happy scoff from Tilly for my trouble. Hey, now. That's just how I appreciate a good drink. Shot or not.

"Story time's finally going to have a kick to it." Bill starts, eagerly. His bowl is already halfway done. "If I have to listen to Uncle tell us about that damn boar incident _one more goddamn time_..."

"You didn't even let me get to the best part!" Uncle protests. Williamson sneers.

"The best part was when you stopped making shit up!"

I snicker around my spoon. The old man surrenders easily, bobbing his cup at Tilly for a refill and getting little more than an eyeroll.

"I might have to make a list. Which do you wanna hear first, the tale about the man paying me to help him advertise perfume to rich ladies so strong it'd knock out a horse or that time a horse nearly knocked _me_ out trying to trample their rider to death?" One more bite and my stomach is begging for mercy another way. Only tobacco can get the stew's flavor off. I tug out a cigarette and stick it between my teeth. "Also got a story about getting hit in the head with someone's bag of grain but it ain't funny."

"I know you're not talking about fighting no damn _horse_." Susan adjusts her coat collar as the wind picks up. "Leave the bullshit to Uncle, please."

"That's right." Uncle agrees, bobbing his spoon in the air. "You've been gone a bit, Arthur. Might've forgotten the hierarchy."

"You ain't even _on_ the hierarchy, unless it's got a section for lazy horse shit." I tug out the cigarette and flick the ashes into the fire. "I ain't kidding you. City horses are _fed up_. Don't matter how big or small the city is! I think that poor thing was relieved to have a little sense come back in its world..." I hold my hands out to try and paint a picture in the air for my favorite bumpkins. "I kept expecting to turn 'round a corner and bump into a horse trying to sell me pamphlets to the latest art gallery."

"Would they hold it in their mouth?" Tilly asks, chewing on a corner of bread. She was often one for weird questions. I can't even tell if she's being serious right now.

"Their hands, maybe. I saw some horses wearing suits there. Anything's possible." I snicker. "How they got _toupees_ on their head, though..."

Hosea coughs on his bite. Tilly delicately sets down her plate just to push me properly. I wheeze with laughter as I attempt to keep my seating.

"It'd be better for _all_ of us if horses ran things." Dutch says, right on cue, stabbing his spoon in the air at each one of us. "We could retire early!"

I join in with the collective mutter of approval, even as my thoughts wander. If anyone could work with a horse better than me, it's John. I won't admit to it, mind, since just because he's not _here_ don't mean word won't travel. Can't have him getting a big head on me. It's crazy, though. He's broken in quite a few horses in his day. Can get even the most hot-blooded stallion to heed his word. I've seen bigger fellers get bucked right off the bat. This man, though, comes _alive_ during danger. Goes from a dull moron with his brain in the trees to a firecracker, _blink_ of an eye. Anyone else might think he's two people in one.

"Hey, Tilly! Got any of that tea left?"

"For now. Sleep well?"

"Tch. For _now_."

It's always good to see everyone, but Abigail...phew, it is _good_ to see her. That messy brown bun would shame a hundred fancy dolls primping and preening in the big city. When I set my plate down and turn around I see her skirt's covered in dust, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. There's a homely elegance to the woman I wouldn't replace for fifty bucks. Right now her fists are on her hips, crooked smile lighting up the day like a second sun.

"Took you long enough to say hi!"

"Saving the best for last, Abigail." I clutch her tight and growl happily over her shoulder. "Ah, I _missed_ you."

She smells like a good, long, hard day's work: sweat, dirt and soap, mingled all sweet and familiar. When I pull back her smile shakes a little at the corners, like a cliff edge about to give way beneath my feet. I try to figure it out before she starts speaking.

"A lot's happened since you were away." She peers down at the fire and half-eaten meals. "You get caught up yet?"

"More or less. Sure there's still some adventure I've missed." I look over her shoulder, then around. "How's the babe?"

"Holding up. We tried to move somewhere a little warmer." I nod my thanks to Pearson, then follow her through the winding trail between tents and caravans. "Dutch is _crazy_ about him. Always fussing, like he just couldn't wait to be a grandpa."

"Heh. You'd think Marston would be enough to last that man a lifetime."

I wait for the wisecrack on Hosea -- he's fussier than _ten_ Dutches -- and feel off-balance all over again when I get another curious patch of silence. That funny feeling's starts right back up. Abigail tugs back the blanket curtain over her tent. At the sight of rosy cheeks and a dusty head I promptly forget what it was I was thinking about.

"He's _finally_ asleep." Her sigh is almost enough to knock me over. "Try to speak softly when you're near, I don't...want to have to go through another hour rocking him."

There he is. Tinier than my thumb and swaddled in one of Susan's old plaid blankets. Spring still has a cold bite to it and it's translating into a permanent blush on his face, softer than any new flower. Old thoughts threaten to pull me away from camp all over again. More than many miles, far further south in a tiny house by a tiny river. I swallow thickly and nod her way. Well. If anything can dampen the ache of nostalgia, it's a hard head with a foul mouth.

"Where's that fool at, anywho?" I grunt, leaning up and cracking my neck. "Think he could take turns on rocking duty."

... _Now_ it makes sense. As Strauss once put it, it 'clicks'. Germans have a real colorful way of speaking and I've always liked that one. Like a bullet slotting into the chamber or a trap being set. Something falls into place, nice and snug. Now, he _did_ say it wasn't a German saying -- a French one -- but that's well beside the point. I'm feeling some of that European wisdom now. All the details falling together as one. The source of that funny feeling I got coming into the camp, the gap at the campfire. The foundation undercutting that bad look on Abigail's face.

John's gone.

"...Sit down." She slaps my shoulder with the back of one hand, making space for me on the ground and folding her arms around her knees. "Lots to catch you up on and the day's slipping away."

 _Been_ gone is a better way of putting it. I can already see that in her eyes, well before she speaks. Abigail's love for that fool paints her all over. Don't matter how many times they squabble or the colorful insults she slings at his back. She _loves_ that man. Loves harder than nearly anyone I've seen, and I've had plenty of turns on this dance floor. Hell, I love him. It's why I wanna give him a shiner to remember when he shows his sorry face back here again. It was a rare day in hell he was able to beat me in a fist fight, and even _then_ I'm usually drunk off my ass. It's serious work swallowing the anger down into an already full stomach. Abigail's talking again and she don't need me getting selfish.

Though I do feel abandoned, too.

"Hasn't visited. Hasn't wrote. Not a single letter. Not that I could _read_ it, anyway, but still. Someone here could read it for me." Her voice dips woefully. "They always do."

...To hell with it. I'm going to get right and angry, because Abigail's cheeks are already red just talking about the whole thing. Not a cloud out today still, but the rough weather's coming. She was a right tough bird that treated tears like a passing shower, at best; last time I saw her rain down was not long before Jack was born. Babies have a hard time coming into the world, sometimes take their mothers with them, and I couldn't blame her the shower that eleven days before the babe said his first hello. Almost felt them myself. How could I _not_ , when I wasn't sure if shiny cheeks and a bloody basin would be the last I saw of her?

"How long he been gone?" I'm not going to like the answer. I already know. This ain't Marston out playing up the silent act for a week or getting some distance in another town for two. He's not the type to run off, but he's _also_ not the type to have a kid and settle down, neither. Abigail bobs her shoulders. Fiddles with the flyaways at her neck.

"...Two months, maybe? Two and a half?" Without meaning to I lean back. Just to get a better look at her, or maybe the words just hit me square. "I don't know."

She knows. Ain't no such thing as missing a person, _fearing_ for a person, and not knowing about every minute they're not here. Two and a half goddamn months? Last I was with the gang he'd seem as normal as ever, with what passes for _his_ aloof, thick-headed version of normal. I lean a little closer to her, because she's just as strong as she is honest and probably won't ask for it. Abigail proves me wrong, though. She sometimes does. She takes my hand quickly, squeezes it hard, and, hell. The things I'd do for this woman, if she'd just ask me.

"Oh, Arthur. I just...want to know he's _okay_. Could be a corpse on some dirt road somewhere. Could be in a cell in Saint Denis. Could be fine, could be sick, could be _anywhere_..." She doesn't let go. I hope she doesn't. "Do you think...do you think he got tired of...me?"

"Nah. Nah, I don't think that at _all_." Oh, _hell_ , it's getting real hard not to curse that fool to the flames and back. "Man doesn't go through what you've all gone through and just get tired of you like that."

"He...he left a note saying he needed some time away from the gang for a bit. By my dresser. Just _gone_ one morning. His horse, saddle, bags, clothes. Just like that. Day before was regular. He went out hunting, rode with Javier to talk to some nearby traders selling furs. Maybe a bit quiet, but he gets like that. You know. Didn't think nothing of it." I blink when she suddenly hides her face with both hands and shudders. "I told him I don't _do_ that anymore. That I'm starting over _new_."

"...Come on now, Abigail." I reach over and slowly rub her back. "I don't think that's it."

"Then _tell_ me, Arthur. You knew him since he was a kid. Been family far longer than I have, might ever be. What's going on with him?" She rubs a fist over his eyes, then pushes her chin into her palm and bounces her leg. Still trying not to let it get to her, even though it's already got her. Heartbreak's as sure a disease as a fever. "I thought..." Abigail helplessly waves her other hand about. "I just thought...with the baby here now, too..." It falls back over her face. "Oh, _shit_ , Arthur..."

I keep rubbing her shoulders, like soothing an itchy horse, even though this isn't nearly as simple. Back and forth, nice and slow, soothing myself in turn with thoughts on how big of a bruise I'll leave on that little shit's good eye. Abigail sniffles, wipes her face over and over, hardly letting the tears come out in the first place. I urge her up, lead her over to the campfire to warm her hands and get a little something better in her chest. The others send us sympathetic glances, but otherwise leave us be.

"...Do you want to read it?" She asks, once she's breathing normal again. Pearson offers her a plate of stew, which she shakes her head at.

"Sure." I say, because I've already decided to carry this weight with her, whatever she's willing to shrug off. "Give it here."

She stalks over to the tent and tugs out her biggest bag, yanking it out instantly. The fact that didn't take long tells me plenty, though I don't say a word as she walks back and unfolds it with careful tugs. I push down the urge to flick the note into the growing flames -- it's a wonder Abigail already hasn't, honestly -- and squint down at the chickenscratch. Underlines...and a heavy hand. I hold back a snort. Couldn't be anyone else.

_Abigail, I need space. Tell hosea and dutch not to worry about me._

_its something I need to do, to figure all of this out._

_this ain't what I thought it would be. This life, this...place. I just don't know, but I will, soon. Be well._

I scoff under my breath...then promptly hold it out over the fire. Abigail _squawks_.

" _Arthur!_ " She snatches it, then knuckles me in the ribs, enough to make me cough. Son of a gun, that woman can hit _hard_ when she's in the mood. "That might be the last I have of him."

"Dirty letter with bad spelling and no details ain't a proper memento." I grunt, just to be contrary. Nah, I get it. The venom's just coming out now and the letter's all but squeezed it from me. Man of few _goddamn_ words. Didn't even mention the baby.

"Oh, I know." Abigail tucks it back into a careful little square. "Might as well let Jack see it, if he doesn't ever..." She clears her throat and pulls her shoulders back. "You know."

Camp is still shuffling and muttering around us, munching and drinking and chatting, but it's noticing. Tilly's sharp as a whip; sewing away at that pair of pants with another mug of her flowery tea and glancing at us for a cue to step in. Karen, too, over her own cup of coffee. Susan's frown lines by the food cart are deeper than a ravine's. Not a single shocked face, though. This is a learned thing. This...is what was in the air when I climbed up the hill. A camp filled with heartbreak, under the camaraderie and trust and swagger the Van der Lindes have turned into an art form. ...Goddammit. I should've known. I should've _known_ that excuse for a man would break under the pressure of fatherhood and book it when the going got tough.

John killed his first man when he was eleven. Hadn't even hit puberty before getting blood on his hands. When he first told us about it it'd been a year after we'd picked him up. Or, rather, when Dutch had all but dragged the boy kicking and screaming into our temporary hideout in Illinois. He'd tried so _hard_ to put on a front, that evening he told us about it. Lifted his chin and glared through that ragged hair of his, soup bowl scraped clean and nose scuffed from a scrap earlier that day. We'd had our suspicions early on, of course. Kids that have killed have a different _look_ to them. They're still foolish, still nosy and curious and forgetful, but something else is a little...off.

Animal intuition, maybe. That, or it's just that I know personally.

_"...I'm glad you opened up to us, son." Hosea reaches out to rest a hand over his. When John tugs back into his chair he pulls away, as smooth as if he'd never attempted at all. "Decisions like that are made quick, but they certainly ain't made easy. This isn't something you should keep bottled all to yourself."_

We'd known the boy was different, still, when he asked if we still wanted to keep him after that.

_"I know God won't want anything to do with me now." He's dogged as ever, trying not to let his mouth crumple, but it just cracks his voice instead. He's never looked so young. "I already know."_

_"You ain't an adulterer, you ain't a wife-beater." I take another bite of steak, in the hopes I can look bored enough to wipe that anxiety off his brow. "You're just a kid trying to survive. There's no need to pray to all of us instead."_

_"Shut up, Arthur." John snaps, rubbing his filthy, scratched nose. "That ain't what I'm doing."_

He's been in a hundred bar fights since, not losing so much as a yellow _tooth_ against men twice as heavy and nearly as mean. Three years ago (or was it four) Hosea and I watched him stare down a wild stallion he wanted to tame, all because he liked the way his coat shone. Two days later he rode the beast into camp, polite as anything when it'd been red-eyed with bloodlust. This man could even be the star of one of Dutch's books, if he cleaned up a bit. Literary perfection in a duster coat, the noble contradiction of brave and stupid, reckless and conscientious. To think. To _think_ , it's a goddamn _newborn_ that has him running for the hills.

Turning a molehill into a mountain. A thing to fear, instead of a bump on the journey.

"You going to stay awhile?" Abigail's hands are clasped. Holding a moment between her palms, threatening to slip far away.

I nod. Some of that awful ache _finally_ leaves her face and I get a good, proper smile. ...Phew. Damn. It could chase the sun from the trees, that. Abigail gives me a fond pat on the shoulder and goes back to an unfinished chore, folding the pant leg carefully and lifting up one knee to get the needle in at an angle. Tilly walks over and asks if she could use a hand, which Abigail responds to with more cheer than before. I take my hat off and fan the sweat from my face, looking over the quiet hustle and bustle of home as the evening starts to dip low. ...Yeah. I'll be staying a while.

Even if I weren't, I would, now.

*****

_There's nothing like it. No motion picture or big city theater show could compare to this. The dawn over the trees, the early bird charming the socks off of me with her call. I'm chilly and in need of a bite, but it's in my bones, again. My camp. My PEOPLE. My life. Bright and early._

*

I've only ever held a baby three times before.

It ain't nothing personal. I just don't usually get the opportunities to hold them, with my lifestyle. Funny how they make me _so_ aware of my own strength. I can skin a rabbit three different ways, clock a guy clean cold with a right hook. No, it's a little life with a pink mouth that makes me really think about how my arms and hands work. Every beat of my heart and twitch of my finger has another meaning, worse potential, and it takes me shifting my arms four damn times before I get them set _just_ right. Ladies are laughing it up while little Jack and I figure each other out; Tilly and Karen whisper to each other, palms shielding their lips from view. Something funny, I'm sure.

"I know, I know. We make quite a picture, him and I." I mutter. Jack wriggles like a wound-up horse, feet and fists kicking up tiny hills in the blanket. Whoops. Guess I spoke too loud. "Shh, shh. You're quite all right. There you go. I won't drop you, boy."

"The great, fearsome Arthur Morgan, all doe-eyed for a babe." Karen titters. Tilly's grin is brighter than the clouds.

"Outlaw, brigand _and_ babysitter? Nobody will call you dull, that's for sure."

I scoff under my breath, because they want _some_ sort of reaction out of me, and, sure enough, they laugh again. Eh. It's good to hear them happy.

Camp is really starting to settle up here and the fresh wave of excitement that follows a new move has all but veered off; been just about two weeks since I got back and I'm feeling that itch to get moving all over again. It's better for it we stay, though. Little Jack's going to need stability, what with his health still being less than reliable. Abigail's getting a much-needed nap in the caravan right now. I'll stick around as long as it takes for her to get her bearings back. She hasn't gotten more than a few hours of sleep this past day and a half _alone_ , with him waking and squalling for no reason. Not that I have a clue what that is. He's well-fed, he's warm. Some babies just get sick, though.

Mary had plenty of money to spare on the best doctors around and _still_ had a daughter that died in the crib after her first year. Jenny once told me her mother had twins before her that didn't last two days, splitting the hours between them in a way a writer would probably call poetic. Nature didn't care one lick if a person's hair was made out of gold and they bled dollar bills; she'll still whip the rug right out from under a sorry son-of-a-bitch and laugh when they hit their ass. I still have that letter from Mary, though I don't know why. It's not a happy one. Then again, I've kept all the others. Tucked away like a dirty secret, except these don't make it to the campfire roundtable.

Isaac...birth had been the one hurdle he'd cleared with flying colors.

Abigail drifts over to the fire like a folktale two hours later, when Jack has finally decided between screaming and sleeping. The girls keep offering to take him from me, but they took the message the third time I waved them off. They've had him all to themselves for months now. My turn. In-between dozing off myself I've had a fine opportunity to scratch some more notes into the journal, which has been in need of a little love. Plenty of hunting and talking, but not enough time to soak it all in.

"Think he'll be an outlaw like his father?" Abigail asks, sounding a little more like herself after a few short, careful sips. I scoff, _much_ more sincerely this time.

"Hopefully he'll be smarter, at least."

"Maybe a carpenter." She muses, folding one arm beneath her elbow thoughtfully. "Or a writer. Good with his hands. Making things, you know."

A far cry more than what half the gang can claim. We're far too good at taking. Lives, land, baubles. The goal is to _make_ , as Dutch takes such great care to sing to us day in and day out. Make our future with our own two hands, as honest as can be in a dishonest world. Make _ourselves_ , one snatched moment at a time. Jack whimpers, bulgy eyes flickering, but not opening. Abigail tenses immediately, but I feel less edgy and more like I got a brick in my chest. I won't let anything happen to him, if I can help it. Even if the thing that's already happened is a father wandering off without a proper farewell.

*****

_Absence makes the heart go fonder. If it don't, then go yonder. Hosea taught me that line. It's always fitting._

_Susan got into one hell of a spat with Bill today. If that guy's a mountain, stubborn and consistent, she's a river. She'll cut through anything. Tilly and the new girl, Karen, are also having a spat over their living spaces. City slickers and their creature comforts. Javier has been playing the peacekeeper, supposedly, though that role's all but been handed to me now. Gives me these little twinkly looks out of the corner of his eye to get me in the_ _business whenever I'm nearby. 'Course, it don't end there. He asks me a question or yells me over for something or another even when I'm not. Sly as a FOX._

_Mac and Davey had to get a good, long sit down with Hosea after starting a fight near Strawberry. Like a pair of damn kids. Been spending some extra time on the open road just to get some peace and quiet. Looks like I gotta get used to camp politics all over again. For now, it's time to sketch. There's a lovely little spot up the way, what looks like a dried up waterfall that leads to a high up spot where I can see all the trees below. Going to capture it before we pack our bags and head out again, whenever that is._

*

Little Jack's sick.

It's small things that hit hardest. A splinter. A bullet. Shit...a _baby_. The gang can come together over a death-defying heist or a robbery. An escape plan with the odds stacked against us, don't matter. Kid gets sicker than a dog, though, and _stays_ sick...and it's damn ready to fall apart. The baby's incessant crying has woken up Strauss and Bill a few too many times; they've got a grudge burning in their eyes, though they know better than to air it out in the open. Javier makes a joke over breakfast the kid's going to be a singer. He's not happy about it, either, but he certainly hides it better.

I've had the pleasure of waking up to one of Dutch and Hosea's rare rows. Rubbing sleep crust from my eyes and trying to remember which way is up all I could think about was the last time I heard them take that tone with each other: when John came home with a head injury from his first heist with the family. He'd been sixteen, already whip-quick with a gun and boasting more kills than many full-grown men. We'd gotten out with a pretty three hundred, a few antiques...and John got the _extra_ souvenir of a nasty hit to the head when an aggrieved party tried to grab Dutch. I've seen wild before -- _been_ wild myself plenty of times -- and to this day I ain't seen anything like what possessed John that night.

Kids ain't supposed to be the ones protecting adults. We could've gotten away a little quicker, a little cleaner. I should've held him back. These are the things I listened to as my fathers yelled at each other, howling under the moon like a pair of mourning wolves for hours as I sat by the bed and watched over the boy's delirium.

"The boy ain't supposed to be in a life like this. We were supposed to be situated somewhere by now. Somewhere _safe_ , moving only rarely."

"I only have so much _control_ over life's sway, Hosea. I'm doing all I can just to keep us steered in the right direction!"

"You love to act the part of a god. Now live up to the title, or _God help me_ , I'll take over!"

They may have been just out of camp, but it had been early enough and quiet enough for me to catch every last word. For a few minutes I didn't even know what age I was.

Tilly admits to me over the dishes she doesn't think he's going to make it. It's not something she can say lightly, knowing what that boy means to me, to _all_ of us, but...I can't fault her her honesty. Not when he sounds _this_ bad and hasn't let up for so long.

"After you left we were just glad he was drawing breath. He was so _small_." It's a curious note in her voice, fondness and uncertainty tip-toeing around each other. She lowers her voice a smidgen when Susan walks by and casts over us one of her usual stern gazes. "...Then he'd just cry at everything. When he was full, when he was hungry. When he was cold or hot. I was an only child, before I got taken away, but I still saw enough babies to know this wasn't right."

Must be worse than I thought, if she's bringing up her past between it all. She doesn't talk all that much about her childhood. Knowing what I know, I can't say she should.

"...Should get him seen by someone medical." She sends a forlorn eye across the camp to where Abigail and Jack are holed up. Far from the first. Far from the last. "We pull some pretty impressive stage tricks, but...this deck's not in our favor, Arthur."

She's always been one of the wisest in the gang. Never mattered how young she was compared to most everyone else (if age were all it took to be wise Uncle would have half the world beat). It's been a hard month, even for our well-weathered tolerance. Jobs are trickling in, but only just. At least it's good hunting land. Bill went and got himself bit by a snake while scouting three days ago, dumb shit. I figure if anything's going to bite anyone, it might as _well_ be him, but it was a right good scare. It ended up being a dry bite, with just a bit of poison, and it's put him out for days. He's crankier than ever and insists on limping to the stew pot by himself.

Little Jack's cried enough for all of us, with some storms to spare. First week since I returned it'd seemed odd to me, though Susan clued me in early it'd been going on for _much_ longer. Second week I damn near got used to hearing a tinny yowl right alongside the chirping of birds and clicking of hooves come morning. Third week and all I've felt is worry. Worry and _hurt_. Tilly's words have broken the proverbial camel's back. This can't go on.

Good, ol' Herr Strauss later offers some old German wisdom that hasn't taken. I'd half-thought of a joke about Jack _probably_ being Scottish, anyway, but the camp air has been too edgy for it. A situation's certainly serious if I'm keeping my big, fat mouth shut for once. Karen brings up it might be not enough milk and offers to give feeding a try, if maybe her motherly instincts could be worked up by pressing a babe to her breast. I don't know a thing about that, but Tilly _still_ pushes for Abigail to see a doctor, even going up to Dutch and Hosea about it. Hosea agrees, of course, and, well. Isn't that just the sort of push we need to do anything? Approval from on high.

It's the boot in the ass we all need; Abigail is weary to the _bone_. Even when I've got my world centered on hitting a deer through my scope or reading the trail a sliver of my mind is always on her. She's stressing about falling behind on camp chores (though not a soul here faults her) and it's had her feeling dour and useless, two things I can most certainly relate on. Stressing about Jack's health, too, about her wayward partner, when she's got the _energy_ for it...it's all kindling tossed onto the fire. I'm not liking the bruises under her eyes. Even the occasional rare smile I get doesn't chase them away. She nurses her cup of coffee for far too long in the mornings. Avoids the fire in the evenings.

This just can't go on. I go up to her, once I deliver the deer to Pearson, and ask about it. Her bun is unkempt. She grips a blanket around her shoulders like it's the only thing she's got left.

"I don't want to be a mother. Knew it wouldn't be for me. Knew from a _young_ age." Her voice gets high and specific. Mimicking someone in the past. "Whores don't become _parents_. I'm lucky just to eat and stay clothed."

"Well, not everyone wants to be a parent, but life has its own ideas." I try, doggedly, as much as I want to be talking about anything else. "You're doing great, though."

It's the best I got. It don't take. A hard set tamps down her jaw and the edge to her voice is coarse as sand.

"I'm not, Arthur. I'm _not_. I _hate_ this. I'm tired. I'm tired of it never working out." Her hands fists in the blanket firm enough to pop her knuckles white. She doesn't look at me. "Maybe I should offer him..." She pauses to swallow, staring hard into the distance. "...offer him up to an orphanage."

I suck in a _tight_ breath.

"...An _orphanage?_ " I lean down in the grass and hold her by her shoulders, turning her to look at me. "Listen to me, Abigail. Listen to me. You ain't a quitter. You're angry and tired and worried, I know, and you got a _right_ to be, but this is quitter's talk."

I'd been in an orphanage. John had been in an orphanage. _Abigail had been in an orphanage._ Those places may be necessary, but they ain't pretty, and just the _thought_ of Jack being put on the doorstep of a glorified rat hole for life's unwanted strays makes my skin goddamn crawl. The things I had to do on the streets just to get by isn't a mark I _ever_ want left on that child. Even life in a gang with an absent father and danger around every corner is better than anything they have to offer. Shit, I can't tell what's worse. Him being at the mercy of an uncaring town...or me doing something stupid and taking him for my own.

It hurts her to admit this. I watch the sleepless nights and helplessness bruise her cheeks red.

"Of course you'd say that. You don't know a thing, Arthur." She shoves my hands off, turning away and spitting, "You're not a _mother_ , you've _never_ had to deal with this. Never getting a goddamn moment's rest, being worried sick, being _abandoned_."

A hot shiver crawls up my neck. My voice pitches sharp.

"I had a _son-_ "

"A son you barely ever _saw!_ "

The camp around us falls quiet. One of the horses nickers nervously. She seems to realize what she's said a second later, because the heat slips out of her and her fists burrow back in her blanket.

"...You got more _fight_ in you than this." I hiss, lurching to my feet. "A goddamn orphanage..."

"Shouldn't have said anything." She mutters, scowling off at some tree or bush. "Couldn't expect you to understand."

She and I don't talk the rest of the evening. It's a small camp, though, and we lead intimate lives. A town can nurture a grudge, maybe, and city can forget about them altogether, but sooner or later close quarters have to meet. I put it off, anyway. Get up to go do something or smoke a few too many cigarettes by the perimeter whenever she comes around. That little comment of hers split my lip and the thing won't stop bleeding.

"Arthur!" Uncle calls from the campfire as dinner's being doled out. "You practicing being part of the scenery or are you going to come join all us fine folks?"

"I think it's pretty clear what I'd rather be doing, old man. Eat your damn stew or shut up, whichever comes first."

"Tch. I've seen _ticks_ with kinder personalities." He mutters sidelong to Strauss. "More introspective, too."

Uncle starts howling along to one of Javier's songs, Davey and Mac soon join in, but I have about as much stomach for it as Pearson's poison. Dutch returns a few minutes later from a long excursion scouting out marks in and around Valentine with Hosea. I know he's got something big to say when he waves me over to his tent, hair poking out of its slick and no cigar to be found.

We need to take Jack to a doctor.

Strawberry's closer, but last I was there the closest they had to a town doctor was the bartender. Might be some midwives there we can consult, though, and I brought it up. Hosea is for it, Dutch insists it's a gamble. Blackwater is also debated, except Strauss decides to pop in and tell us he's on good terms with a medic in Saint Denis, and I'm _very_ close to peeling off my beard from all this back-and-forth. It's never fun talking about a long trip. Won't be fun arriving there, neither, since medical bastards just _love_ to judge and ask questions. Don't bother me none, of course, but Abigail don't need any of that nonsense.

It doesn't take long for her to drift away from the fire and its raucous cheer, standing among us as we try to come to a decision sooner rather than later.

"I'm not taking any chances." Abigail snaps, when the discussion weaves around an honest debate and starts inching toward an argument. "Saint Denis."

"Saint Denis it is." I say, and take her appreciative smile as an early victory.

Morning comes far too early. We saddle up as quick as we can to have the hours on our side. It'll be an ordeal getting all the way down there, partially because of the heavy clouds on the horizon and partially because little Jack'll likely be squalling the whole time. I button up my undershirt and take a little extra time picking through my coats. I'll need an outfit that won't stand out too much in town while pushing back the wind. A small part of me wants to put on something a little nicer to look good for Abigail, not that she really cared about those things. Scarf, maybe? Gloves, for sure. The more I experiment, the less sure I am.

For minutes I fuss, pulling out my brown duster, then pushing it back in the box and taking out my red leather jacket, then folding it up again. Won't be touching my furry blue coat for a while, not with the weather warming up. Hair is fine -- no longer in its cut, still not _too_ long -- but the beard might need some work. Starting to itch my lip. Can't find my scissors, though, and there's no time to dig around for them. I sigh. Not sure why I should even bother. There's no fixing the sorry son-of-a-bitch I've become. Certainly not in five minutes and with a dab of pomade.

One last look at the frown lines in my cheeks and I call the whole thing quits, plucking my favorite hat off its nail. I turn at the feeling of someone watching me: Abigail is hovering just outside the edge of the mirror, still in her camp shawl and old blue dress.

"Arthur..." She starts, holding onto her elbow in a way that makes me think more of an awkward child than an adult. "How are you?"

"Fine." It's not what she wants to say. I eye her beneath the brim. "Fine enough, anyway."

"Good. Good." She shuts her eyes tight, as if drawing upon a mysterious energy. "Listen. What I said about...about your son..."

"...'s fine." I turn back to the mirror and rub at my beard again. Eh. I'll trim it when I get back. "You were right. I wasn't there enough. Paid the price for it."

Blue eyes are always said to be happy and innocent, but there ain't enough poetry on how rainy they look. Abigail stares at me, long and sad, and I fix my eyes on the mirror and my work-in-progress. She's got enough to hurt over these days. My wife and son can stay buried in the dirt and in my soul.

"It...means a lot. You going with me." She starts to smile, careful and honest as morning. "It's been a while since we've gone off on a little adventure like this."

"Every day's an adventure with _you_ , Abigail." I take my hat off again and sweep it low in a bow. She tosses her hands at me.

"Oh, _please_. Closest I've gotten to an adventure lately is having to navigate Pearson's stew. Sits even worse with me than usual after Jack."

"I definitely..." I put my hat on and fit it snug. "...don't need to know about that."

Abigail's nose scrunches mischievously.

"Had to sneak as far away from camp as _possible_ so nobody could hear my-"

" _Let me ride on the ring-dang-dooooo-_ " I sing, loud enough to drown her out. Uncle whoops and hollers somewhere to my right, probably still half-asleep (or half-drunk). I wave him off. No, now's not the time for a goddamn song and swill, I just wanna keep my appetite.

I puff warmth into my palms and head over to the tethers. Abigail's going to take Rosy. She and Tilly now split her with Karen; horse is agreeable and mild-mannered enough to be open to other riders, something Penny doesn't suffer one bit. Her strawberry coat is gleaming happily in the sun, tail flicking from side-to-side as she munches on what's most likely yet another treat. Tilly spoils her rotten. Oh, she'd been _heartbroken_ when Mahogany got caught in that trap. Had that Thoroughbred for damn near three years, just to have him go out like a light in less than a day. I don't see many horses live to old age -- not in this life -- but I really thought he'd be one of the rare few.

"I hope those clouds don't mean anything." Abigail sighs, tightening her scarf around her head.

"Should be fine." I peer over at her lap. "How's Jack?"

"Sleeping..." She tugs up his blanket a little. "For now."

It's early, but not so early the two kings aren't up and lording over their filthy kingdom. Dutch gives me a little extra blowhard charm and practical advice for navigating the trail, licking coffee off his lips all the while -- there's been talk of small-time bandits near Dewberry Creek, though he assures we shouldn't be too worried as long as we keep pace. Hosea gives Abigail a tiny bag of his usual herbs and goodies, just as much a good luck charm as fatherly pragmatism. Tilly and Karen wish us luck in-between yawns. Mac and Davey offer to trail us for an hour or two and I turn them down, telling them they're better off keeping watch.

A well-oiled machine, some would say. A unit and a family, I'd prefer. I haven't even gotten my distance and I already miss everyone. I turn and take in the sight of the sleepy camp, smoke sluggishly curling into the morning's periwinkle.

...Still no hide nor hair of John Marston. I lean over the horse and spit. Damn fucking _fool_.

"You be safe now." Hosea gives my arm one more squeeze. I grin down at him.

"Worry about your beauty rest, Hosea. I'll see you in a day or two."

Javier sees us off, waving until he's hardly more than a lump of color in the landscape. It's just a back-and-forth trip -- not more than a day and a half, if we're on schedule -- but I feel some of the ugly pressure of all those tense days slip out and carry off into the wind. Jack is already starting to whine, though damn if he doesn't sound like he's about to run out of air.

"Here we go." Abigail sighs, jiggling him just so. I keep my eyes on the road, because I know what I'm needed for.

The first few hours are relatively smooth. The horses have a little extra energy from the slow days, falling into step with one another nicely. They chat amongst themselves, Rosy's huffing pairing comfortably with Penny's intermittent snorts. Wind tosses the trees and kicks up some dirt, heavy and healthy in turns, and I feel like I haven't breathed in this deep in a while. The only real mar on the mood is poor Jack, squalling so loud and so often it's a wonder birds don't drop dead from the sky. He trails off once in a while, but soon as the sun rises it picks up again. Neverending ringing. Small wonder Abigail is like to go mad.

"He howls any harder and his throat'll be about as ruined as Marston's." I grunt as the kid lets out a particularly painful shriek that makes Penny buck a little.

Abigail scowls. ...I really need to know when to keep my mouth shut.

We stop a little past Flatrock Station to water the horses and eat. Abigail sits off to the side to feed Jack. It's not a successful session, from what I can hear, and, damn, I feel for her something awful as she sighs and mutters down at the child to please, _please_ just cooperate, just this once. I start to think of Eliza. How she managed all by herself, with only the occasional visit to break the monotony. The thought makes me contemplate something happier instead: Jack's nail-in-my-ear whining or a bullet to the brain.

Clouds are creeping closer, _far_ too dark for comfort and letting off the occasional foreboding rumble. It's when we pass by Dewberry and head into Lemoyne full Abigail's resolve starts peeling at the edges. Jack's been going for nearly an hour. He's reduced to whimpers and snivels that barely carry over the wind, but he's left his mark.

"Oh, Arthur. I can't _take_ much more of this." My shoulders stiffen with the old argument we had. To my surprise she peers at me from beneath her hood with questioning brows. "Can you...I don't know, sing something? Just to...get some new _noise_ in my head."

"...Sure."

...Huh. I sing mostly to amuse myself, just like I write and draw, and the request is so abrupt I'm kind of at a loss. Jack's hoarse whimpers fill in the gaps between the horses huffing and puffing through the chilly evening. Maybe a song can cheer them _both_ up. I clear my throat, then spit it over the side of the horse. Worth a shot, I guess.

_Well ain't you, gal, ain't you pretty as a penny_

_Worth so, so much more_

_Canter 'round, wind tosses the lore_

_Of the children's books you'll trot in evermore_

_Ain't you gal, ain't you my gal_

_My pretty little penny_

_Good gal, smart gal_

_Pretty as a penny_

_Pretty as any_

_Pretty as a penny_

_Pretty as any_

_Pretty as a penny_

...My god, was that embarrassing. I'm pretty sure the blustering wind has magnified my voice. Ain't nobody around on this stretch of road, but I glance about, anyway. An off-beat, enthusiastic clapping turns my head again.

"That was wonderful!" Abigail crows, clapping as much as she can without jostling Jack...only to pause and frown. "...Wait. Did you make that up about your horse?"

...Ah, damn it.

"I mean...come on, now." I give Penny's neck a pat. "She carries me back and forth day after day. Least I can do."

My face heats up when Abigail giggles. Should've stitched my lips shut and told her to imagine a song.

"Someone asks me who's caught your eye and I'll have to tell them you got a thing for women with four _legs_." Ah, sheesh. She's giggling like a goddamn drunk. I try to grimace that smile into submission, but it don't work.

"Jesus. You are going to _town_ on me. What'd I do, Miss Roberts? Normally I remember the sins I try to repent for." I pause. "...Normally."

"Nothing, nothing." She tries to fix her face proper again. "It was good!"

I snort and turn my gaze back to the horizon. Still a cloudy, muggy, rolling mess, but the rain's held at bay. Been hardly more than a sprinkle here and there all day long. Then again, that usually means the storm is gearing up for something worse. When Abigail doesn't say anything else I look back over. She's...smiling at me. Fondly.

"I mean it. You got a great voice, Arthur, don't...think I ever told you that."

Maybe. Maybe not. I don't make a habit of remembering compliments. Her scarf's taken a battering from the wind, a few strands of hair poking and curling over her forehead, dark as ink on a page. I know what I'll have to draw when or if I get back to camp. For now...

"Sure." I say. Her smile fades a little. Becomes stiff. My heart sinks, until I realize it's not aimed at me.

"...Arthur, you seein' that?"

"Yeah. Been. Don't turn around."

Song wasn't just for Abigail. The element of surprise is often the difference between taking another breath and going cold. The two men that have been trotting after us _just_ far enough can think we haven't caught on yet. They're more than welcome to think I'm a naive rancher that's never been this far out before, too. I start to hum another tune, loud enough to carry over the drumming of hooves. She leans over to show me 'something' on her coat sleeve, close enough for her to whisper:

"What are we gonna do about them?"

"Don't you worry 'bout that. Just keep your eyes forward. Give Jack a little pat for me."

"I swear you're trying to replace me as his mother." She scoffs, leaning back in her saddle and proceeding to do just that, smoothing at his hair with her thumb.

Penny and Rosy speed up, just a hair, and the last few trees of dotting the plain melt away to show the stretch of wet expanse that marks Lemoyne proper.

"No..." I tweak the brim of my hat to keep the water out of my eyes. "...I certainly don't wanna do that."

No hills out here. Barely any rock cover. I have to pretend to dig around in my saddlebag to look behind me without being obvious. They've fallen back a few steps. Not _nearly_ far enough. I'm reminded of those coyotes all those weeks back: just some scavenging predators, trying to figure out an easy target from a problem. They won't have to wonder too much longer. I lean back and scrub a hand over my chin, letting my arm fall to one side to 'accidentally' show off my revolver. If they decide to get messy I'll take at least one of those bastards down with me. If the other fools' got a lust for revenge they'll no doubt be preoccupied with killing me and let Abigail and the boy get enough distance. If they get me _first_ , somehow, well...it'll at least give her a headstart.

My fingers twitch by Penny's flank. I've half a mind to get the jump and pop them both off _now_.

"Don't do nothing foolish, Arthur." Abigail whispers, head held high and eyes firmly on the faint glow of Saint Denis in the distance.

"Ain't nothing foolish about protecting you two."

They're both close enough I can hear them muttering to each other, though their words are swallowed up by the breeze. It's as if the weather is responding to our plight, the sky overhead a somber, furious merle. My world hazes brown at the edges, narrowing down to the cold chill dusting my skin and the two beating hearts to my right.

"They could have _others_." She hisses out of the side of her mouth. "Don't jump to action yet."

The instinct to send two bullets behind me is fire in my blood. Thoughts normally tucked away between pages or allowed to flit freely during idle moments in camp are now the weight of the world, bearing down heavier with each passing second. Somewhere in-between there's a sliver of aching sincerity at the cruelty of life, for Abigail and Abigail alone. Little Jack growing up in _all_ this...where a simple trip to the doctor's could see him losing a mother.

"We might have to make a run for it, girl." I whisper down to Penny. She flicks her head. "You stay ready for me, all right?"

We reach a fork in the road, one trail leading to a barely town and the other down the winding swamps leading up to the city. I only look once the echo of hooves has receded, watching our twin shadows drifting off toward the horizon.

I give Penny a kick and speed her up to a canter. No time to celebrate yet.

The rain comes down harder, a gray sheet off in the distance creeping up over the plains, and in good time, too. Saint Denis is just a few minutes away, but the miserable smokestack might as well take a _month_ for all that the weather is showing her true colors. An uptick in the wind nearly whips my hat clean off. A sudden thought arrives at its heels; one of me and John, him at the tailend of youth and me a failed man, both of us attempting to jump into the air during one of the heaviest storms _ever_ to hit west Texas. He'd heard it was possible to be carried, even if for just a second, and nearly gave Hosea a heart attack jumping beneath that dark, snarling sky, dotted with dead debris.

"Shouldn't be more than five minutes, if we give the horses a little incentive-" I pant, trying to squint through the churning air. Penny whinnies when a loose branch swings over and hits her flank.

"Five more minutes of _this-_ " Abigail is clutching the babe to her chest, hunched down into the saddle.

"Come on, Abigail!" My hat knocks back, hanging on by its drawstring for dear life, and I ignore the sight of my bangs to give her a smile. "Let's see some of that cheer for good, ol' Saint Denis!"

A crack of thunder pops off behind us. I don't know much, but I _do_ know it ain't nothing compared to her grin.

"You're crazy, Arthur, you know that?" She shivers at another gust of wind. "Think all that company with horses has gone to your head!"

Shit, maybe she's right. I grip the reins tight and let out my best bellow for the world to hear.

_A brown haired girl in a blue and gray world_

_I wish she'd smile, I wish she would_

_A rainy don't stand a chance, I say, a rainy day don't stand a chance_

Abigail smiles beneath her hood, nose scrunching up again and again as rain hits her face.

"I don't think the weather likes your song!"

"Well, it can cut me some goddamn _slack_. It's hard to be tuneful with a sore ass!"

Just like that...the whole world goes topsy-turvy. For a good second we're surrounded by dark gray and a heavy breeze, frustrating-yet-manageable. The next a sheet of rain is tumbling down and freezing us solid. No hail, I don't think, but the raindrops hit harder than bullets. Thunder rumbles angrily in the distance. Even docile Rosy is twitchy. I suppose there's one good thing. If Jack's squalling we sure as _hell_ won't be able to hear it over this mess.

"Abigail, just follow me. We're close!" I hunch low over Penny's neck as we make a break for it. " _Come on!_ "

Muggy swampland sways around us, then over us. A low-hanging branch slaps me in the cheek, hard enough to welt. I don't know what the goddamn residents here call all this -- it's too droopy and intermittent to be a proper forest -- and it's making me nervous. It turns back the rain somewhat, sure, but I really _don't_ like being this close to the trees with all that lightning overhead. When Rosy turns and starts heading off the wooden trail and around the bend I call out in alarm.

"It's a shortcut, I think!" Abigail yells over her shoulder. It's echoed by something higher, just outside the bounds of my hearing. Jack's awake, because there's no reason he'd not be. "Just through those trees! Come on, Arthur!"

"I don't know, Abigail, the ground looks real treacherous the deeper in you go!"

I follow her into the underbrush, water sloshing beneath me as well as around me. Penny whinnies when she slips along the mud, shrill enough to feel, and I give her another firm kick, as much for encouragement as speed. The woman ain't so far ahead she can't hear, but I raise my voice, because she needs to know.

"I also don't wanna be too close to the-"

_**Crack.** _

The tree to my left _bursts_ and everything turns white.

" _Arthur!_ "

Penny shrieks, rearing onto her hind legs and twisting her head. I don't see it so much as _feel_ it, gravity suddenly going vertical and my hands doing everything they can to keep me from falling and snapping my neck.

" _Arthur!_ " Abigail's voice swirls unreliably in the storm's howl. "Arthur, are you all right?!"

All right? I'm pretty damn sure I've forgotten the _meaning_ of the word! I sputter and hold onto Penny's neck, trying to soothe her even as I crane my neck, looking up at the tall tree to my left _up in flames_ , spitting and flickering in the downpour.

"That was-" I gasp, slapping Penny's neck and wheezing in her ear. "You're okay, girl, you're okay, that was-" She's still bouncing and stamping. I look over at the tree again and just gape. "- _shit!_ "

The open gates of Saint Denis stretch out before me, Abigail and Rosy cutting the prettiest figure beneath the illuminated clouds.

"Hurry up, _hurry up_ , let's _go_ -" She cries. "I ain't waiting for that to happen again-"

Penny's kicking and bobbing, still, not even the smartest horse able to piece together why a perfectly good tree turned into a smoking wreck in less than half a second. I snap her reins and kick in my heels, redirecting her energy toward running, and she zips down the rest of the wet road. Never have I been so glad to hear the sounds of city around, above and beneath me. We must make a sorry trio, because the guards at the front hardly look twice at us as we rush through. Abigail slows Rosy to a stop beneath the overhang of some business, sopping wet and blinking at me like I'm only half there.

"Are you _okay?_ " She breathes, eyes all but bulging. I take off my hat and shake my sopping hair.

"Lightning don't strike twice, so they _tell_ me, but I ain't about to dispute that."

A group of women are chattering like monkeys just beyond the gates in lingo I don't care to become acquainted with. A man with dirty feet is screeching about donations for the curch by the first streetlamp, barely louder than the cranking and grinding from a factory just down the block. This city is so damn _noisy_. I'd sooner take up an army of squirrels burrowing into my ears and carving food hollows into my brain than listen to another minute of this dreck. The city's pretty, sure, but so is a rattlesnake. I'd just as soon circumvent it than anything else. I chip my mouth into a smile and glance Abigail's way. She's hardly got eyes for it, though I _wish_ I could say it's because she's in my corner; her face is firmly on Jack, jiggling him and whispering more tired platitudes.

"Almost there, brown haired girl." I give Penny a light tap. "Let's go get you some shelter."

"Right behind you." Abigail chuckles. I chuckle back, in spite of myself.

The rhythmic patter of hooves on dirt is replaced by the hard clicks of the city trail. A sopping wet newspaper boy squalls at us for a dime, doggedly covering his cargo with a burlap sack. I tell him to shut up. It's busier than usual -- whatever Saint Denis's usual is, I _hardly_ know -- and it's a miserable chore weaving my horse in and out of the river of folk and steeds. Rain or shine, quite literally, won't stop Saint Denis from doing its thing. The doctor's is close enough I hardly have time to work up a temper over it.

"To the doctor's, then we'll grab some grub and shelter." I tell her as I tether Penny.

Both horses are grateful for the rest, too exhausted to do more than sniff half-heartedly at their new surroundings. A red-haired gal is doggedly scratching something down on paper when we stroll into the doctor's office. She doesn't so much as look up at the jingle of the door, stick-thin brows bent at a funny angle with focus. Abigail shuffles forward.

"Excuse me-" She starts, soft enough to make me wonder if she's nervous. I step in and clear my throat.

"Ma'am, sorry to bother you. We're here to see a doctor?"

She looks up sharply, like she really didn't hear us come in. Her eyes flick up and down me. Not so much a glance at Abigail and the boy.

"Oh. Of course. Dr. Miller should be available now." She stares at me another second, then nods firmly and looks back down. "Just down the hall."

Out of the corner of my eye I see Abigail trying to make sense of her damp hair, one straggled strand at a time. Lucky for us, and everyone else, of course, it's a slow day at the office. Nobody to bump into or interrupt, with just one old lady all the way at the far end of the hall apparently in the middle of falling asleep. Jack isn't feeling the good luck, though. He's squirming in his soggy blanket and letting out another tinny whine, sounding too tired for a proper cry. Poor thing. I reach over and pat his head. It barely fills my palm.

"Just over here, mister and miss." A deep voice calls. "Over here."

The doctor's hair glistens with fresh pomade, mustache curled just so in the corners. Not a look I would ever bother with, even if it did end up looking good on someone like me. Abigail shuffles in quickly, leaving drops of water behind her.

"I just wanted to have my son looked at..." She's saying. "He's been crying non-stop for weeks and barely eats..."

"Yes, yes. That's certainly troublesome. Sir, would you like to come in?" Dr. Miller asks, holding the door open.

"Sure." I say, though I didn't plan on squatting near the door and mimicking a houseplant, anyway.

So much time spent between trees and sleeping rolls has me marveling at just how _clean_ everything is. If I bothered I could check out all the scraggles in my beard in every corner of the room. Abigail fusses about by the far wall, until the doctor steers her into a shiny leather chair by a bookcase. She surrenders the baby just barely, eyes never once leaving Jack as he's set on a small table by the window. The man hums and mutters to himself as he pulls out a box filled with tools I couldn't hope to identify. I stare at the particularly sharp ones as Jack whines and squirms, one foot kicking free from his blanket and toeing the air.

"Shh, shh." He says, absently, and I shift from foot-to-foot, fighting the need to pick the boy up and comfort him properly. "Hm. Let's see. He looks fairly healthy...when did you say he was born, again?"

Abigail pauses in the middle of wringing out her scarf. She sets it down and lifts her chin. Her voice is calm, despite the whole situation making her grip the hem of her dress like it's about to fall right off.

"Oh. February 21st."

"Mm, yes. Good month, good month." He bobs his head at me. "Is he the father?"

Abigail reaches for her scarf again, then fixes the man with a wide stare. She don't look too composed now. I save her the trouble.

"...Ah, yes." I tip my hat. "Yes, that's me."

The look she gives me could tan a horse's _hide_. She's no fool, though. She catches on and composes herself just in time, snapping her mouth shut and nodding firmly.

"...That's right." Abigail says, smoothing down her dress with careful strokes. The doctor looks between us, one eyebrow raised. He slowly nods.

"Ah. Well, then. This must be very stressful. The first year always is."

Getting her to admit to being worried is a _mean_ feat and one I won't soon undertake. I reach over and take Abigail's shoulder, squeezing and rubbing it softly. It keeps the illusion and, well. She needs it. Abigail still doesn't take her eyes off Jack...but she does reach up and rub my fingers. The minutes drag by, the city outside rattling the windows and still doing little to cover up the babe's distressed squeaks. This damn doctor better know what the hell he's doing.

"You sure picked an interesting day to come down here." He starts, by means of small talk. Abigail's pinched brow clues me in to my continuing role as the sincere father a touch out of his element. Oh, Hosea would be proud of me right now.

"Afraid we didn't have much choice. We were worried a few more days of this we wouldn't ever hear the boy's cries again."

"Well, good news. His heart sounds normal. Lungs sound good, if a little tired from all that crying. Good temperature, good skin. Could eat a little more, though. How is your breastfeeding?"

"I don't...make all that much." Abigail's eyes flick to me, then to him, equally uncomfortable. My heart hurts a little, though I tell the stupid lump to shut up. What was she supposed to feel, struggling with motherhood as it is? "Is that normal?"

"Maybe not normal, but certainly no cause for alarm, either." He can tell that's not being considered the greatest of answers, because he quickly smiles and holds out a hand. "We're all unique, ma'am. I got a shoulder that aches in the rain, though there isn't a science book on the _planet_ that could tell me why. Do you have any women in your life that could perhaps take over for you?"

 _Tch_. Only thing that'd come out of Susans tits is dust. Karen and Tilly don't have any reason to be creating milk, as far as I know, and it was simple kindness that had the former offering in the first place. Jenny's barely an adult, so that's out of the question. Huh. Come to think of it, the gang really could use more of a feminine touch. Maybe when we get back I'll ask Dutch if we can swap Uncle out for a barmaid or something.

"I...don't think that's an option." Abigail eventually says, as roundabout as she can be. "Yet."

"I see." If the doctor's feeling at all at a loss with our mysterious attitudes, he ain't showing it. "Well. He's also a touch underweight. Was he premature?"

"I don't...I'm not sure." Abigail huffs a short, nervous laugh. "He _was_ pretty tiny, but I figured all babies are..."

Dr. Miller looks to me. I shrug.

"I dunno."

"Huh. Well. Fortunately, your child is young yet." He kneels down and rummages around in one of his cupboards, pulling out a small, dry blanket and swapping it out. Abigail's eyes soften with gratitude. "I see this very thing quite often in newborns, particularly those that come out a little early. Give him another month or two and this _should_ start to pass. You can always drop by, then, if he's still showing no signs of improvement."

He turns around again, for something or another in _another_ cupboard. Damn near a hundred of the things in here. Abigail wrinkles her nose and pokes her tongue out at me, letting me know exactly what she thinks about _that_. I clench my jaw and hastily transform my laugh into a wheezing cough into my shoulder.

"You okay, sir?" Dr. Miller asks as he stands up again, hands full of little bits and baubles.

"Sure, sure. Just an itch in my throat."

"If it persists, come on back." He starts to push bottles and bags into a small knapsack. "There's a nasty cough going around. Best caught early."

He sends us off with a gift bag of sorts: a little bottle of alcohol to dab on Jack's gums for teething, alongside some rubbing oil for his skin to work away at that redness and some herbs for Abigail. Doctor also writes (in _real_ fancy cursive) some techniques we can try to get him to fall asleep faster, though he warns us they're not a cure-all and a mother's discretion is best. Well, of _course_. We could've figured that out _well_ before braving bandits and a storm, but Abigail is nodding fiercely and hanging on his every word. I keep my mouth shut like a good not-father and wait patiently.

It costs fifteen dollars, which I try not to look _too_ attached to when I hand it over. Few more years and clinics will cost an arm and a leg to _treat_ an arm and a leg. If that bag of goods don't work I've half a mind to come all the way back here and take it back.

"You staying here awhile, mister?" Miss Red Hair asks when we walk to the front door, chin in one hand. "With your, ah..."

"Wife." I say, and the interest abruptly leaves her eyes. Not a clue why _that_ is, but it's the least of my worries. Abigail's got a storm in her eyes as we get back on our horses. I don't have to do much more than wait to hear it.

"Arthur, why'd you go and say you were the father?"

"Because if he gets so much as a whiff that you ain't fitting the spitting image of a good housewife in a proper marriage he might _treat_ you different. Treat Jack different. Didn't want that."

"Right. ...Right." Her brow knots up again, giving Rosy a soft tap to slow her down a little. "Still. You could've brought it up before we went in."

"Well, I didn't think _he'd_ bring it up." I huff, not looking at her. "...Sorry."

Night has fallen, but as many here would no doubt say, the city never sleeps. It's a quiet ride -- _relatively_ \-- on our way to the inn. We're not going to talk about it.

She slept with damn near half the camp a year and a half ago, about. Myself, included. Jack...could be mine. Could be John's. Could be Bill's, Javier's, Dutch's, a _lot_ of folk's. It don't matter to me, but I do wonder, sometimes. If I were Christian or Catholic I could take this as another sign straight out of a book: John up and leaving not too long before I show up, his wife despondent and his baby needing help. I still don't, though. I won't. I don't buy into any of that preachy, convenient _crap_. It's just a shit situation that could've been avoided if John just manned up and did what he was supposed to do. Nothing more, but a whole _hell_ of a lot less.

I also won't talk about worrying about him.

The streets are slimy from the rain, but the air's not _quite_ as smelly, for what it's worth. I ache for the scent of soil after a hard drizzle. Probably one of my favorite scents out there, right up with old leather and campfire (though Tilly's new tea is a strong contender, now). Shops and carriages and transit in every corner, so many things to do and things to see. Much is walled off to us, though, with Jack's condition; Abigail won't leave her baby in the hands of a stranger and I don't blame her. It was hard enough letting the doctor poke at him, even _with_ money in our hand and a quick-draw tale about being a pair. Still. I want to lighten her heart a little after all that worry.

"Hair on my arms are still sticking straight up." I scratch at my forearms for emphasis. "Little more to the left and the doctor would've had to ask why you hooked up with a stick of barbecue."

"They aren't gonna believe us. Susan will tell me I'm as full of it as Uncle and, sir, let me tell you, my dignity still ain't quite _that_ low." She grins at me, tired-yet-bright. "Guess you were right about that adventure, huh?"

"No, _you_ were right. I claimed no such thing."

The inn has a few vacancies and we're given an upstairs room with a note to watch the floorboards for the occasional rat. We're both too weary for a bath, as nice as it sounds. Still. It feels good -- nay, _marvelous_ \-- to peel off the layers of the day; my clothes have been alternating between sopping and cold for what feels like goddamn eons. I keep my eyes to myself in my little shadow by the door as I button into a spare shirt and she changes into her spare dress. Little Jack sleeps on, having been on his best behavior since we left the doctor's.

...It's funny. We're well beyond blushing and prancing around one another, but I feel about as steady as a foal.

"Oh. Dang it. Um, Arthur, you mind handing me my dry blouse?" She keeps her bare back turned to me, gesturing one hand over her shoulder. "Think I put it in the other bag..."

"Hm? Oh, uh..."

It don't take me long to find it. We only brought the basics. I step over to the bed and hand it to her, keeping my gaze on the floorboards.

"Thank you."

"Sure."

...Ah, I don't like this. Maybe we squabble from time to time, but this awkward air just don't suit us. A growl slips from my throat when I realize I miscalculated the buttons on my shirt. Oh, damn it to hell. I start to unbutton it, making a mental note to start from the _bottom_ this time...

"For, uh...my husband and Jack's father you sure are _shy_."

I blink and look up. Abigail has her dry blouse on, sitting on the edge of the bed with a playful smile. One that promptly fades when I can't seem to get my dumb brain working up a decent response.

"...Okay, that was a little weird." She folds both hands in her lap with a wince. "I'm sorry."

I sputter and snicker.

"Yeah, that...kinda was. Fixed the atmosphere, though, didn't it?"

Abigail laughs and nods enthusiastic agreement, shoulders shaking helplessly and that tightness in her brow melting away. She reaches behind her neck to undo her hair, letting it fall in a dark curtain down her shoulders to start a braid. Another sight I haven't seen all too often lately. I clear my throat and look back down to my shirt.

"...Oh, _damn it._ "

I messed up the buttons again. I grit my teeth and yank them open once more, wondering just how well the cursed garment would burn in the drizzle outside. Traveling for miles, avoiding bandits and outrunning lightning is fine, but this shirt is what's making me feel _real_ tired. A warm hand rests on my knuckles and, just like that, the ire is gone.

"Silly man." Abigail mutters, reaching down to the bottom of my shirt and knitting it together, one-by-one. My face heats up.

"Hey, now, I can do that just _fine-_ "

" _Clearly_."

I twist my jaw audibly and scowl over her head at Jack's sleeping form, quietly grateful he's not old enough to remember stupid things like this. How would I even start explaining being able to outdraw most folk I come across and not being able to defeat a _shirt?_ It's not easy to get ahold of all these thoughts. Not from today's mundane thrills...not with how Abigail steadily lifts her chin up in increments to follow her hands along my stomach, then my chest. Her dark lashes stay low with focus as she finishes the top button, then fixes my collar into place. The hair on my arms tickles again. This time with something far worse than a bolt of lightning.

"...Thanks."

She glances up to me, then back down. Almost quick enough to be shy.

"Sure."

I suddenly don't want to hurry up and get some sleep. I want to...return the favor. Braid her hair or rub her back or something nice, but I'm stone stiff. Stone _dumb_ , Hosea would probably say. Abigail's hands haven't left my shirt. They're resting still on my chest, right over my heart, that useless, shriveled part of me she staked her claim in long ago. Marked it as surely as a brand and about as painful.

"We, uh..." I start, my stupid voice coarse with it, then cough softly. "Still playing the part, or..."

Abigail stiffens and tugs back hastily, as if she didn't realize what she was doing. Those blue eyes dart away from me. She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, mouth frozen on words unspoken. Whatever she's going to say, weird or not, I don't get to hear. Not at the sound of what sounds like a violin, high and sweet. There's music outside, kicking up in a way that's practiced and planned. I make my way to the window over with her, peering at the streets below: there's a guy with a fiddle and another with an accordion, surrounded by a smattering sitting and clapping and lending one _hell_ of a ruckus. Tch. Go figure the rain decides to take a break once we're _inside_.

" _Oh_." Abigail shifts a little, leaning forward to hear better. "Arthur, you hearing that?"

"Looks like the show's coming to us." I try to catch as much of the scene in the dirty, narrow window. There's a good dozen folk with their arms full of beautiful noise. "Huh. Would you look at that. ... _Listen_ to that, rather."

"They're so _good_. Just hope it doesn't wake up Jack..."

Either Jack's deep asleep or he's got a taste for the band. Either way, he hardly twitches. Time to enjoy the show, then. I tug back the curtains a hair and debate on whether or not to crack open the window. Don't matter. There's a loud horn kicking up into the night, clear as crystal, followed by a lively fiddle and a handful of robust voices. Not sure what the celebration is, if _any_ , but it sounds damn nice.

"A _band!_ " Abigail gasps when they stroll better into view, then claps a hand over her mouth, glancing at the baby. "...A band." She says again, softer and smiling from ear-to-ear. "Haven't seen one of those in _years_."

"Come on, we got Javier and Uncle, don't we?"

"Yes, Javier's beautiful guitar skills and Uncle's drunken _belching_." She rolls her eyes. "A match made in heaven."

Heh. It's a knee-slapper. Saint Denis isn't much more than pomp and fluff, but they churn out some pretty incredible acts. Oh, Dutch and Hosea would _love_ this. They never fail to catch up on some of that good, old-fashioned theater, in all its forms. Civilization remained a glamorous Hell; sweep a fellow up in pretty lights and a dazzle of sound, make them forget they're being robbed and gutted for all they're worth. This ain't anything so exemplary, though. Just a group of wizened folk relishing in a lively memory. Even (somewhat) muffled through the window it's easy to tell they've been doing this for years.

"Aw...not _yet_." Abigail moans, shoulders slumping. "Come on!"

They must be back on some schedule, or being told to piss off and quit disturbing the peace. It's hard to tell through our less-than-perfect view as they abruptly stop their song, pick up their instruments and shuffle off into Saint Denis's foggy glow. I study Abigail's disappointed profile. The few loose strands limp over her brows and the leftover cling of the outside shining her skin. Poor woman didn't really get a lot of opportunities to get out and have fun. First it was whoring and jumping from gang to gang just to make a living. _Now_ it's a baby that's got her pinned down.

One thing after another, in the _one_ spot she should be the most free.

"I wish she'd smile, I wish she would..."

Abigail blinks and slowly turns to face me. I make sure to sing low enough not to wake the boy.

"The rainy days, oh, they don't stand a chance..."

I just now realize the very top button of her blouse is left open. Likely because she forgot about it in her haste to get me back in sorts. Right now she's smiling bigger than I've seen in far too long, enough for me to see that tiny gap between her front teeth. Abigail starts to hum along, right beneath my voice like a change in the river current, low and steady. She's always had musical bones in her. Told me once she wants to learn how to play the piano. Would probably be great at it if we stopped migrating.

_Silly gunslinger, silly as can be_

_Even when you nearly got struck like a tree_

_I sure am glad you're here with me_

_In this great big city of Saint Denis_

_Your protection of me and Rosy and the baby_

_I gotta say, cowboy, you've hit me like lightning_

...Well, goddamn. I'm leaning back and feeling my jaw fall down in what's probably a very dumb grin. Abigail smiles bashfully.

"...Lightning rhymes with baby, right?"

I _snort_.

"Sure. I guess. Depends on how you say it. Light- _neeng_ , bay- _bee_. It'll do."

"See, I don't think so." She waves her hand around in a half-circle. "You have that sorta way of speaking, where it all mushes together-"

Still not half bad, come up on the spot like that. What the hell was she doing paying _me_ praise on the road back there? Shit, I could keep going and ask what the hell she was doing with the Van der Lindes. I hush her up by giving her one of those quiet, measly little claps rich folk do in the theater. Abigail pinches up the hem of her skirt and bobs a curtsy, then finally makes her way back over to the bed.

"Beautiful vocals, miss. Just beautiful." I rub my beard. "Lyrics, though, _mm_ -"

She tosses her pillow at me. My face catches it.

*****

_I'm up first today. Made sure the horses are properly fed and watered. Penny seems itchy, enough she's practically dancing at her tether. Should've named her Showgirl, with that attitude of hers._

_It's good to see Jack and Abigail sleeping. They've both been each other's terrors, in one way or another. The storm hasn't given him a cold, I'm glad to say. I'd even think it was good for him, with that healthy glow in his cheeks. No, it's just me without a lick of sleep right now. I can't get a proper rest in a damn city. Once I get back to camp I'm going to have to sneak in some shut-eye once Susan's busy._

*

"You _sure_ you don't need a copy, mister? All the latest developments, in the one spot you can trust!"

"I'm _more_ than sure, boy. Now get that out of my face."

There's no cloud to cover up the disappointment on the boy's freckled face as he lowers his newspaper.

"Sir, can you even _read?_ "

I _growl_.

"I'll read you upside the _head_ if you don't-"

She tugs me away at the perfect time. I suppose the last thing we need on this miserable sunny day is me getting thrown behind bars because I threw a child. Saint Denis may be a thorn in my side, but it'll have to be one wrapped up in a bow. Abigail settles into step with me again once we reach the opposite end of the street, mouth twisted in a half-smile.

"Arthur, you frown any harder and those forehead lines are gonna stick."

"Well, with any _luck_ children and general folk alike will think I'm ninety years old and won't talk to me for fear of aggravating my weak heart."

We keep as best we can out of the crowd -- which is like trying to walk around _air_ \-- as not to jostle Jack. Boy is blinking up at it all, too distracted to even squall. Well, _that_ or he's feeling a little better. I sure hope so. Doctor said himself it's more a waiting game than a cure, what he's got, but the kid's likely just ahead of the curve. Tough, like his mother. Stubborn, _definitely_ , like his father. That's not a thought I need right now, not when there's some stick-and-board crowd screaming across the way banging into my eardrums, and I forget to tamp down my scowl again. Abigail's sigh is both fond and exasperated.

"What's got you so riled up about places like these, anyway? I mean, yes, they _do_ leave you wanting a bath afterwards..."

"There's one."

"There are also _way_ too many birds. I didn't even know there _were_ this many birds and we make do in the boondocks of some backwater forest most of the time."

"Eh, them I don't mind so much. But, for argument's sake, let's say that's strike two. Stinky streets _and_ goddamn city birds."

"Oh, come _off_ it." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "Go on, then. What has you so sour you can't at least appreciate the pretty buildings?"

Civilization is more of a curse than any religious epithet I can recall to mind. I saw it for myself when I was knobbly-kneed and fresh on puberty, stealing where I could in cities and towns with _more_ than enough to give. It was Dutch and Hosea which gave me the words for it all. 'Blunted souls', for the doors slammed in my face when stealing didn't turn anything up and I had to resort to begging on my knees. 'The greed of man', when I told them about the time I got caught trying to pinch a bag off a rich feller, only to get caught and made an example of in the middle of the street. 'The overseer Injustice and the sorry pictures he paints', when I later got locked up for fighting back.

"...What do you think about it, Abigail?"

For once she doesn't call me out my dodge. Her lips purse with thought, jiggling Jack idly.

"Civilization is...it's...well, it's mostly what I know, or what I _knew_." She dips her head low in concession. "It ain't _much_ , in some ways. People got their noses in the air and there's more appreciation for swindlin' than decent work. ...It's also easy to nip over to the doctor's. Get what I need without a long journey. Be comfortable, without too much worry." She opens her mouth to continue, then just shakes her head. "I don't know. It's a lot of good and a lot of bad."

"A lot of bad and a little good sounds about right, yes."

"That ain't what I said, you ridiculous man."

I hold back a grin, trying for innocence. She don't see it, anyway. Abigail is staring up at something way up high. A carriage decides, then and there, it wants to zip _right_ in front of her. I reach out and grab her waist, yanking her to my chest right as the wheels stroll by and kick up mud.

" _Jesus!_ " Abigail spits, glowering down the street at its retreating back. "You'd think the damn world was ending."

"It already has." I grumble, then sigh hard at the aftermath left on her dress. "Aw, shit..."

"It's just a little mud, don't worry." She sighs herself, twisting her ankle to lift it up to the light. "...Mud _and_ a big, ol' tear. Well, dang it."

I stare at the ruined hem and think of Mary, her love of the civilized world and all its surface comforts. This time it's lines on my face, prettier than what usually happens.

"Sorry I asked." The woman huffs, checking over Jack for any mud. "Clearly this was a question best left unanswered for now."

"Sure. Wanna do something about that mud?" I peer over her head at a colorful sign. "Not gonna find a fancy boutique in Strawberry, that's for sure."

A pair of ladies sniff and frown behind their fans when we walk in. It's a curious arrogance they share, when I can't tell if they're wearing hats or a nest of pigeons, but I smile and give them a little nod, anyway. For Abigail. Always for Abigail. The woman in question looks more lost than a crocodile in a snowstorm, looking this way and that at all the wares.

"Oh, my..." She casts a nervous eye over Jack's snoozing form, then down at the spots of mud she's tracked inside. "It's...very nice here. I really hope he doesn't kick up a fuss..."

" _Pretty_ sure these windows will hold." I give them a knock for emphasis. Abigail huffs.

"Thanks, Arthur. Feel like the weight of the world just left my shoulders."

We move past the neatly arranged racks and shelves, looking over the craftsmanship with an appreciation even we can't hide. It's all very pretty, certainly, though some of these dresses wouldn't last a week in camp. Either too big or too delicate. There are a few in the back, though, that seem decent enough. I run my fingers along a few, feeling along the thread count and imagining simple scenarios that could test their give. A rainier day, a snag on the underbrush...

"This one ain't so bad. Kind of similar to the one I got..." Abigail is touching a soft violet dress, simple and quaint. When I lean close I can see a faint pattern of flowers, dainty around the hem. "Here, I think I'll get this one..."

"Nice pick. Does it fit?" I ask. She hesitates.

"Oh, I'm sure it does..."

Nah, we're not spending three hours hemming back at the camp. I hold my hands out.

"Gimme Jack. Go try it on. That, and the other one you were looking at. Yeah. The merle one." Gotta flick my fingers a few times to get the point across. "Go on. Get."

She surrenders the baby with a frown that doesn't sway me _one_ bit. She'd be better off trying to intimidate the stars out of the sky. Abigail bundles the dresses in her arms and starts to make her way over to the fitting room. One of the ladies by the door titters.

"Miss, what _ever_ happened to your nursemaid?" Her laugh makes me think of a bratty tea kettle. "I doubt she's as big and muscular as _that_."

Abigail's a little taken aback, at first. Insult's just odd enough not to stick right. Then her brow furrows. She opens her mouth to snap back with probably the meanest thing these women have heard in years. I beat her to it.

"She's off-duty today." I adjust Jack in my arms a little, making sure his head stays in the crook of my elbow. "Mind your business and go back to whatever it was you was doing. Buying a sillier hat or...whatever."

The look on that woman's face is worth its weight in _gold_. Her friend is just about as scandalized, reaching up a betraying hand to touch her hat self-consciously. I look over to Abigail, who just gives me a funny look and promptly heads into the dressing room. I must've messed up, because that wasn't usual fierce countenance or sarcastic glower.

"Don't need to rush to my rescue like I'm some lost maiden." I hear, just before she clicks the door shut.

"Ain't like that." I mutter. "They're just fools and you got enough to fuss about as it is."

"Arthur. Just 'cause I'm a mother don't mean I've got eggshells for skin. Just...have my back, is all. You know I have yours, too."

Of course.

Jack squirms, wrinkled mouth scrunching with a pout at some noise or baby dream. I mutter down to him and bob him a little -- nonsense, really -- and, to my surprise and pleasure both, he calms, snuffling his nose against my chest and sleeping on. Might be the sound of my voice, I don't know. I hum a simple tune, just under my breath. To give him good thoughts, if nothing else. Something about the roundness of his cheeks warms my stomach. Soft as ash. Maybe I'll draw him, too, when we get back home...

"How's this look?"

I look up just as Abigail twirls in a circle, enough to bloom the ruffles into petals, and all I can see is that dazzling young woman Uncle brought in a year and a half ago: a brown-haired girl in a wolf's pelt, smelling of coffee and snow as we made ourselves warm around the fire.

"...It's crap, ain't it." She sighs, arms slapping back down to her sides. I sputter and shake my head repeatedly.

"No, no, no, that ain't it, it's fine, I _like_ it." I start to move my arm, then remember what I'm holding. "Color suits you."

She's about as good at taking compliments as I am. Abigail fights back a smile and stands on her toes in an exaggerated look at her son.

"Jack doing all right over there?"

"Jack's doing _fine_. Go on, now. Try the merle one."

She gives me a funny look over her shoulder, this time all squinty-eyed and smirking, and I pretend not to notice. The door clicks shut again.

"So, what about you? You'd look quite fancy in some Saint Denis garments. Maybe a cane and top hat, Mr. Morgan?"

"I'd much rather rob-" I start, then pause, allowing myself a surreptitious glance at our two lovely ladies still idling by the door with their fans. "- _deprive_ banks of the opportunity to mislead and misguide the general populace through persuasive negotiations than be a banker, miss."

"That's some mighty fine bullshit. See, I knew you'd fit in here."

She comes back out in the merle, the blue in her eyes all the more profound for it, and Jack isn't _nearly_ active enough to provide a distraction. Abigail clearly has some sort of clue about my conflict, because she takes her dress by both corners and does another silly little curtsy, just for me. If I react I'll lose. I try for disaffectedness and simply bob my chin at her.

"Looks good. You want it, too?"

"Um."

Heh. That's a quarter for Morgan. Abigail would sooner eat a bowl full of nails than confess to a little vanity, much less wanting _anything_ for herself before others. That's more than enough for me. I walk on over to the front counter -- knowing carrying Jack will give her no choice but to trail behind me -- and tell the receptionist we're buying.

"I mean it, Arthur." She whispers as the man counts the bills. "You should get a new scarf or a new belt while we're here..."

"'m fine."

Her silence tells me she's not pleased with my answer, but she can go on not being pleased. My attitude toward clothes ain't like most folks. If they work, they work. I don't need to look fancy as Javier or homely as Hosea. If anyone would need new clothes it'd be Marston. This is one of the few qualities I'll admit to sharing with the man: he'll wear a garment to the _ground_ before swapping it out. Not as slovenly as Bill, sure, but about as filthy. Without Dutch's influence he'd probably have no sense of style at all. I try to think of what he'd look like in a sharp city vest, hair slicked with pomade and his stubble nearly as smooth.

...It's a shame I don't get paid for my bad ideas. The thought turns me moody, threatening to ruin the sweet mood that's settled over the past few hours. I hold Jack careful in one arm and hand the bags to Abigail with the other. On our way out the door she decides to take out some of her own ornery attitude on our two puffed-up denizens of the modern world, bumping into one hard enough to send her silly hat askew.

"Oh, I'm so _sorry_." Abigail bows a little, a sweet wince on her face. "I'm not used to so many people..."

"You would do well to learn how to walk." The woman sniffs, stepping away like she's afraid to catch a disease.

To my surprise Abigail doesn't spit a retort. Just smiles at me, once we're well out of earshot on the other side of the street.

"...Well." She holds out something twinkly in the palm of her hand. "That was a pretty fruitful visit, don't you think?"

"Why, you _sneaky_ little..." I snicker helplessly, peering down at her find as close as I can with my precious bundle. A _very_ fancy pocketwatch, by the looks of it. Silver, perhaps. There's an elegant vine-and-thorn inlay curving around the edges, with a stag rearing majestically against a sunrise backdrop in the middle.

"I always was a good thief." She holds it out in the light, then thinks better of it and pushes it into her pocket. "Might be pretty enough to keep."

I watch the play of the sunlight over her hair as we make our way through Saint Denis's vibrant tangle. It's nothing compared to her, though even I'm not ridiculous enough to throw up a line like that.

*****

"Let's get you back to bed so you can tuck in early. You look ready to fall off that horse."

"I want to." Abigail must be bone-weary if she isn't even telling me to fall off my horse and stuff it. "God, do I want to."

We get back to camp just as the light is thinking of retiring early. Ain't quite hot enough for the longer days, though the passing of the storm has meant smooth sailing, otherwise. The air is crisp and the skyline is fit for a painting, hearty with high, rolling clouds framed by the halo of a shy sun.

"You finally come back and get delegated to babysittin'." Is what passes for a greeting as we wind our way back up the hill.

"Not much different than trading watch over camp, Mac." I don't bother with the nod. "Uncle and Reverend behaving?"

Dutch and Hosea are out again. It's for the best. I'm far too exhausted and annoyed for more coming home pleasantries. Abigail tethers her horse and heads straight to her tent with Jack, not even taking her bag. Yeah. Can't blame her. I squat by the low fire and choke down a few bites of lukewarm soup. At about this time John would either be strewn out on his cot or keeping watch. I've been back a while and walking into this camp still feels odd and uncomfortable. I glance over at the only other person near; Strauss is hunched over like a turtle on one of the sitting logs, neck-deep in a book.

"...Where's that saying come from, anyway?" I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Making a mountain out of a molehill."

"I believe it's English." I swear the guy has an encyclopedia instead of a brain. If he ever gets a bullet to the skull paper and ink will spurt out. "It's shown up in many of the older novels I read while learning the language."

"I know it's English. I'm asking where it's from." I hold up a hand when he parts those thin turtle lips for clarification. "I'm joking, Strauss."

My stomach's as full as it's going to get and the immediate danger of the open road and the babe's safety is finally over. There's a soft lull settling over my person, thicker than a blanket and threatening to swaddle me tight. I don't like it. Might be my workhorse tendencies showing themselves, wondering why there isn't still something to _do_ with the last few inches of meager daylight left. I soothe that horse in my head with a thought to go check on Abigail and the boy. That's plenty productive, after all they've been through these arduous few months.

"You look exhausted, Arthur." She mumbles when she sees me, curled up on John's old cot with her wolf blanket hiding most of her from view.

There's no reason to lie. Not when I catch myself swaying a moment too late. I hang up my hat and shrug off my coat by the spare bedroll, then tug off my shoes and give myself a little test sniff. Just to make sure I won't wake her and the baby up accidentally. I cast about for the softest bit of ground. I could always walk across camp to my caravan, but I'm here, and I'm _tired_...

"Oh, just get _over_ here, Arthur." Abigail gripes, without any venom. "It's cold."

That's me told, then. I hunker down and curl behind her. It's impossible to give her any space, not without my ass hanging over the edge of the cot. She sighs gustily as I wriggle and settle myself. Once I finally find a position that works (a little closer than I should be) my arm floats above her for a bit, trying to figure out where to land.

" _Arthur_."

Make that two times. I lay an arm over her waist (and over little Jack), fitting the other between my chest and her back like a fox in its den. Abigail lets out a soft little sigh and curls up tight. Already I'm going boneless, my head swimming slow. There's none of that cantankerous squalor from the city. No starving, barking dogs and clanking industry. Just the rustle of the trees. The leftover embers snapping in the wood and her heartbeat, close enough to almost feel. The dusty trail still clings to her in a second coat, but I'm sure I smell coffee and snow as I drift off to someplace else.

It's been a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about this game. I _had_ a lot of feelings about the first game nearly nine damn years ago. Here's to a lot of _fucking feelings_.
> 
> For all the research I've put into this I overlooked the canon detail that Abigail had Jack when she was _eighteen_. When I wrote this I imagined her around the same age as John at the time, twenty-two or twenty-three, so...while this is _supposed_ to be supplemental canon, I'm going to tweak that and have her a little older.
> 
> I also think it's implied that Arthur hadn't been to Saint Denis until after Jack was born -- judging by how he and Dutch talk about it in chapter four -- but I'm going to interpret it as surface familiarity with a touch of sarcasm. Besides, you can go to a big city a few times and _still_ feel like it's beyond your grasp.


	2. What I Got Is All I Have, If That's Fine Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Inspirations: "Hymn #35" by Joe Pug + "I Can't Make You Love Me/Nick Of Time" by Bon Iver

_Back in the city again. Absence isn't making the heart grow fonder, that's for sure, though I'm feeling some of that...what's the word? It's a peculiar feeling. Only get it when I'm surrounded by so many people. Smog and lights and noise. Different than being in the thick of camp or even on a farm. Much different. Civilization has a way of making a man question things that are barely easier to grab than a cobweb. I wonder if this is what gets civilized folk losing their heads so acutely. Besides the economic corruption and bad air, of course._

_Ah, well. Going crazy I surely shall, though it won't be here. I know what I need and it doesn't involve me kicking up my feet and growing idle in a capitalist communion._

*

"Your son, sir?"

"Sure, sure. _Ah_ , uh, no, er. Nephew."

"...Oh. Well, how old is the dearie?"

No, it ain't so bad, I suppose. There's a certain calm that comes with poking through these soft little clothes and thinking about...well, softer times, I guess. I hold up one with white and brown stripes and look it over. ...Nah. Makes the kid look like he just got out of a chain gang. What the hell are some of these tailors _thinking?_ I set it down and pick up a plain red one and a plain blue one, trying to imagine Jack's dusty little head poking out through the top. Thought I'd be doing this so many years ago. Side-by-side with Mary, a daughter in her arms enjoying being the center of attention. A tiny thing with her hair. All dark and thick, almost long enough to put a bow in.

A more whimsical thought than the rest. Of strawberry hair and lazy weekends by the river, now ashen to the touch and little more than a sour aftertaste during the dark hours.

"Sir?"

"Oh. Right." See, that's what the city does. Gets the smoke all up in a head and fogs the senses. "He's almost half a year now. 'Bout six months...say, what do you think looks best on a baby boy?"

"That pink one, sir." The man bobs his head smartly, glasses glinting in the windowlight. "Nice and hearty for a little man."

I hold it up to the light to get a good look at the color proper. Not as rosy as a blush, more like a ripe fruit. An apple, maybe. Tilly might call it 'rather darling'. I should probably get two, so Jack can stay warm on wash-day. The weather's turning, though, and he's not nearly as fussy as he was a month back. ...Tch. Go figure. I end up coming back to Saint Denis not for a check-up at the doctor's, but for _shopping_. City's a damn miserable gravity. Pulling me back in no matter how hard I dig my heels into the ground.

"Which ones would you recommend for fall?" Each one I rub between thumb and forefinger repeats the same threadcount. Soft, smooth, a little thin...

"Oh, that's not for months yet. I'm not sure we have any of those in stock."

My grit teeth must show, because he fusses up some excuse about dusting something and flits off. Looks like my plan to avoid coming here _later_ in the year is dashed to the ground, too. Whatever.

"I'll take three."

I pay for the clothes and head straight to Penny. We leave the city and, with it, its frantic taste. The day will run off without a feller the moment his back is turned.

"Pretty as a penny..." I nod between whistles at one of the marshals as I take my leave of Saint Denis. "Pretty as any..."

Spring has been treating me well. Today is no different. It's as brisk and windy as it was hours ago, the air alive with a personality _all_ its own. Penny hardly slows down as we round bend after bend and cross through weak rivers, alight with the energy of a world in full bloom. By the time we arrive back at camp evening's past fallen and everyone's drinking and chatting around the fire; Javier's elegant voice is as sure as a bell as I wind my way up through the thicket. It's not Cielito Lindo this time, but what seems to be something on the fly, dynamic and rollicking as the breeze at my back.

"Arthur." Davey says as I pass, brows low with disinterest or exhaustion. "Were you followed?"

"Yes, I've brought half of Texas to our doorstep just to spite _you_ , in particular." I reach into my satchel and toss him a cigarette. "Take a break."

Early retirement's for winter. Just about everyone is up and at them, still. Tilly is huddled next to Javier as he strums up another melody, supping on a hot drink with her eyes to the stars. Uncle is swaying in tune to the beat, yammering about some such. Even old Strauss is bobbing his head from where he's hunched over a tome, albeit as stiffly as an owl in its hollow. Sometimes the celebration isn't being born or some state sponsored hullabloo from Europe. Sometimes...it's just enjoying simply being _alive_ and, for once, not running scared or aching down to the bone. The Van der Linde music fills my soul well before I see Karen's ringlets or Hosea's smooth side-part.

"Ha! You're gonna be an alcoholic, if you ain't one already." The woman wobbles in place in imitation of him. That, or she's _finally_ getting drunk. "Boozing from place to place until you eventually drown in a bucket of your own vomit."

"Phew, there ain't enough soap in the _world_ to wash that mouth out." Uncle's not at all belittled. Man's still in his union suit, hat nowhere to be found. "What about _you_ , miss? You hold the devil's drink pretty well!"

"Oh, don't let these hollow legs fool you. I only drink when partying." She waggles her bottle at him. "My mother was an alcoholic. Disguised her tendencies as socialite obligations, but I knew the truth. That won't be me, or so help me _God_ , I'll douse myself in oil and turn myself into a firecracker."

She guffaws pretty hard, then, because alcohol makes everything funny, and it's infectious enough to get me chuckling. She's already a stout part of the family, due in no small part to the fact I can now pick out her sounds with instinctual fondness. Everyone here does everything just a _little_ bit different, at least. Moves different. Sits different. Thinks different. It's Van der Linde laughter what keeps the cold at bay. I think about each one as I tether Penny and check her feed.

"Here you go, girl." She snatches the sugar cubes well before I pull the drawstring closed. "That's right. You deserve the best, don't you?"

A sharp cackle cuts through the air. Tch. Couldn't confuse _that_ one, neither. Bill sounds like a goddamn witch. Whenever I hear that laugh I half-expect to see him scooting around on a broomstick. I look over to find him spreading out his hands, instead. Elaborating on what is no doubt a terrible joke.

"And I told him, I _told_ her, I couldn't confuse you for a horse's _ass_."

"Well, which was it?" Karen's mouth is crooked with disbelief. Seems she's still getting used to Bill's particular brand of thick. "A him or a her?"

"Wait..." The man blinks at her, blearily, and leans back on his log. "We talking about the horse still?"

That gets a right round of laughter, which Bill seems confused by, but pleased with nonetheless, joining in with another witch's rattle followed by another more boisterous voice. Dutch, see, has _two_ laughs. The ones he reserves for swaying folk, happy and bold and fake as a glass eye, and the one he only brings to camp, low and rumbling. I study his silhouette against the roar of the campfire, flickering with the light and good humor.

"You think _that's_ bad..." Dutch's proud stance is a complete contradiction to the warmth of his tone. "...you haven't heard Hosea's proposal to Bessie."

"Oh, they have." Hosea assures, giving his knee a smack. "But I'd be more than happy to catch our newcomers up to speed on a fumbling more classic than Romeo and Juliet!"

My heart's by the fire, but my feet won't leave the horses, the easy breeze that moved through me all along the trail now replaced with a heavier thing. John laughs...like Hosea. Less a laugh and more a wheeze that never _quite_ stops. It doesn't come out all too often, but when it does, it's impeccable. If I turned around during a good joke? I wouldn't be able to tell the difference between them. The camp may be boisterous with casual joy, swaying with song and drunk laughter, but the fact I'm not hearing that echo...well. It's an off-pitch to the air that I can't ignore.

I give Penny one more pat on her flank and make my way through the tents, stopping only when Jenny saunters up to me, peering beneath hair so windblown I'm honestly not sure if she just rolled out of bed or not. Then again, that's often what curls do.

"Evenin', wallflower. What's that you got there?" She reaches a hand out, quick as a snake, and I whip it out of reach. "My word! Are those _baby_ clothes?"

"No, I bought them for Uncle." I drawl. "'Course they are." Her eyes widen with delight. She's an odd one, but I can't expect much else from an ex-showgirl with _stage fright_ , of all things. I strongly consider throwing that little fact out, just to get that ridiculous look off her face. "Don't you got some leather to hide?"

"Well, I've got some rather good glue I'm thinkin' of sellin' up over by Van Horn. Not that _you_ care all that much about the finer points of my trade." She peers through what's left of the day's light at my bundle again, undeterred. "Your new niche runnin' along the lines of family wares?"

An intentionally stupid question to get me to flap my mouth and reveal me. Oldest trick in the book.

"Bye, Jenny."

"You ain't _any_ fun, Arthur."

"Oh, I know."

It's a short journey, what with most everyone drinking and dancing the night away. I find my favorite brunette with her elbows deep in dishwater, flicking her head at the day's stubborn flies. Susan is humming along to Javier's song, drying off each plate that's handed to her. Maybe I'll busy myself swatting a few to relieve them the day. 'Til then...

"Hey there, Abigail." I tip my hat. "Miss Grimshaw."

The old woman gives my armful a suspicious look. My voice trickles off like a weak creek. ...Ah. Now that I'm here I'm not actually all that sure...how to go about doing this. I mean, I knew I _wouldn't_ be, but knowing and _doing_ remain distant relatives.

"Afternoon, Arthur." Abigail seems to be in good spirits, at least. The day has left her skin with a shiny sheen, but her eyes are bright. Content. "How was your trip?"

"Good, good. Didn't get shot." I clear my throat and step a little closer. "That's always...good."

One thick eyebrow slowly rises up to her hair. Abigail tugs her arms out and flicks the excess water off, peering at my satchel. Oh, why do I bother trying to hide anything from this woman?

"You got something there?"

I glance around to make sure nobody's watching. They are, of course. Susan is _right there_ , as nosy as someone who's more or less been an unofficial aunt can only be. Reverend is slouched against a tree a tent and a half away, peering at me as best he can through his usual drunken blear. I glance over and catch Tilly in a half-turn by the fire. ...Tch. I've seen more polite _crows_.

"...I'll take some of these over to Pearson." Susan says, taking a handful of dishes and strolling off. I give her a silent word of thanks, then spread out my purchase one-by-one on the small table. Abigail watches me quietly, eyes wide and more than a little at a loss.

"So, uh. Jack. That onesie of his was looking a little small, so I thought I'd grab something on the way out of the city, just so he can...you know, grow _into_ his clothes and...whatnot. Thought they're kind of..." I cough. I don't use this word often, either, and it ain't coming out right. "...cute?"

"Oh." Abigail bites her lip, eyes crinkled at the corners. "Is that so?"

Lord. Subtlety isn't for me. I open my mouth to tell her it's just a thought, she doesn't _have_ to take them, and shut it again when Tilly walks over.

"Abigail, do we have a few extra plates? The stew's almost done..." She slows to a halt and blinks down at the table. "...Oh, how _darling_. Are these for Jack?"

"They are. All the way from Saint Denis." Abigail hands her clean dishes, chin high with forced dignity. "Arthur picked them up."

...Sheesh. I can hear her trying to stifle her giggles beneath the words, less subtle and more skipping like a misplaced record. It's usually a sound that cheers me up. Now it's just making me feel silly. Still the best laugh in the camp, as far as I'm concerned, though Tilly is coming _mighty_ close with that chuckle of hers. When Dutch first brought her over as a kid -- hair a dark halo and knees so scraped they were permanently pink -- I thought for sure I'd never hear it. I repeat these little details in my head and try to keep the surly look off my face. This is a happy thing. This is good.

"Well, isn't that thoughtful." Tilly says, giving Abigail a curious look before making her way back over to the fire.

"...Anyway. If you don't like them I can always take them back-" I start, coarsely, feeling completely out-of-sorts and put upon for no good damn reason. Abigail shakes her head firmly.

"No, no, they are! Cute, that is. They're _real_ cute." She picks up the pink one, holding it up with both hands and watching it sway in the breeze. "...Oh, gosh. I think you got an eye for the thing, Morgan. Here. I'm just about done here, actually, let's try one on..."

The boy's awake, staring at everything and nothing as babes so often do. The pink one fits perfectly. I offer to hold him while she finishes up her chore. He's not so fussy today; Jack coos as I lean my back against a tree and sidle him into the crook of my arm, passing a thumb over his hair. Wispy as bird down.

"Well, hello there, little Jack. How's your evening going?"

He blinks at me like an owl. I make a face, scrunching up my nose and raising my eyebrows. His eyes get bigger, fingers squeezing the edge of his old plaid blanket. Oh, I can hardly resist. I give that tiny button nose a little poke, a chuckle worming its way out of me. It promptly dies at Abigail's amused:

"Just what in the heck are you doing?"

"Just...just had a little something on his head." I grunt, promptly handing him over. Abigail stifles another laugh, affecting an air of seriousness and nodding sharply.

"Oh, I see." Her sleeves are rolled down again to commemorate the end of the task, one loose strand poking out from behind her ear. "Well. Thank you for keeping him so sharp, Mr. Morgan."

Tch. She's teasing me again. I can't say I _don't_ like it, but...well. I'm overdue for a meal, and the party's still going on without me. I get to my feet and slap dirt off my jeans. I'm halfway over to the fire when I hear her again.

"I mean it, Arthur."

I look back over one shoulder. Jack is reaching up to toy with that stray hair, the dim evening blue framing her in a curtain. I can't see her smile all the way over here, but I can hear it.

"Thank you."

*****

_Spent a little time in Strawberry today. Still small. Still quiet. Still not sure what it wants to do with itself._

_Might be that which makes me come back, sooner or later. I'm not small, but I'm certainly unsure. The folk here are weary, yet unbothered. Civilization has attempted to establish a few roots, but only just. It was seeing a tiny girl with her mother that had me wondering if it's something else about this in-between town that's appealed to me. This could be somewhere for Jack to grow up. He could play with other children. Have nature right in his backyard, never too far, and someplace warm to rest his head, again and again._

_It isn't meant to be, and I know it. We're a hodgepodge of dreams and fierce ambitions, all far too big for Strawberry. Our lives have wound together more permanently than a knot of yarn and the future is still somewhere off we can't quite see yet. A promised land, promised by Dutch, protected by Hosea._

_Tilly once told me she used to dream a lot as a child. I hope, should I see the next few years, that I still remember how._

*

"No. No, no, _no..._ "

My voice wakes before I do. My mouth is moving, I can hear the words, but all I can see are fleeing shadows.

"Jack, _no_ -"

Ice is in my lungs. Turning my veins black. When I hit the dirt I almost confuse it for snow. Damn it. _Damn it!_ I can't see them. They're already too far. I won't be able to catch these bastards without a horse now. I fumble my pistol out of its holster from where it hangs on the cot, willing my frozen fingers to move quicker than they're able. The damn thing jams, _curse_ me, and there's not enough time to shake it into place. Time's of the essence. I have to rouse the camp. Bill and Javier can chase them down with me. I'd take Marston, too, but he's gone and will stay gone.

" _Abigail!_ "

I see her lean onto her elbows, the dark still obscuring her face. Karen mumbles and shifts beside her, still on her drink from hours ago. Bill is also dead to the world beneath his tent. Uncle, Strauss, Mac...damn it! Those damn lazy fools. Damn lazy _fools!_ How can they be sleeping when those sons-of-bitches took our child? I don't bother to keep my voice low as I curse the Van der Linde name, dropping onto my knees and shaking Abigail by her shoulders.

"What...what is it, Arthur?" She sits up a little, taking my forearm to steady herself. "Arthur, what is it..."

"They took him, they _got him_..." It's a frigid spring morning, but the fury in my chest swelters hotter than a furnace. "Don't worry, I'm going after them-"

"Wait, _what?_ " Now she's sitting up, sleepiness gone in a flash. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

Pistol is useless. I'll have to use my rifle, even though I can't see shit in this black _hell_. I'll kill those sons-of-bitches. I'll gut them one by _one_. A cold, sharp breeze hits me stiff, right as I'm holding my fingers for a whistle to wake everyone up. It's like a splash of water.

Oh.

...Oh, damn it all to _hell_.

"Abigail, I'm..." My arms float uselessly in the air. I stare at the tree's ink blots against the stars, swaying and bobbing in the wind. "I...I must've been dreaming, I'm..."

...Oh, misery. Misery fucking _take_ me. I just had this haggard mother waking up and thinking, even for a few seconds, that her boy had met a cruel and ambiguous fate. I cover my face with both hands and don't bother trying to hide the shaking. The rest of the camp is stirring now. Horses are twitching and what sounds like Bill grumping from his sleeping roll. It'll be a lot of apologies, in an hour or two. When my fingers fall away Abigail isn't coming over to slap the sorry right out of me. When she speaks she ain't even angry.

"...I've had them, too." She heaves out a long, heavy sigh of relief. "Had one a week ago, actually. Miserable thing. Left the entire day feeling funny."

Karen stirs again, sighing and slurring something I can't understand before asking,

"Mmph. What's with the...yelling, you two all right or...?"

"We're fine." Abigail answers, reaching over and giving her shoulder a pat. "It's fine. Go back to bed."

Uncle calls out from where he's probably taking a piss down the slope, voice high with confusion. I don't have time for it. My shoulders bounce, then drop, my body's meager attempt to push the sentiments of the past minute to the dirt where it belongs.

"Abigail, I'm...so _sorry_." I whisper, miserable as a dog. "I don't know where my godddamn head was."

"It's okay. I mean it. You came running, that's...pretty good to wake up to."

More grace than I deserve, but I suppose I have no choice but to accept it. I push hands onto my hips and try to breathe out the tension, peering at the black curtain draped around the camp. It's an hour or two until dawn, still. I'm wide awake. More than I want to be. Abigail shuffles to her feet, gathering up her wolf pelt cloak around her shoulders. It makes her look so small. Like I could just hold her in the palm of my hand. She bumps her shoulder against mine as she walks past.

"Here. Why don't we go make something to drink and sit awhile?"

"Nah, Abigail, you don't have to do that..." Hell, _I_ don't even want my company right now. The woman just snorts.

"I _know_ I don't, Arthur." The way she drawls my name feels like my ear getting pinched. "Couldn't make me do anything, in case you forgot."

Coffee's on low supply. Hardly a quarter of the bag left. We decide to apologize to Tilly later about nabbing her tea; I'll be sure to get her something better when I get around to town again. Abigail huffs and shudders as she handles the kettle. It'll take a while to get proper hot with the low fire. I tell her to huddle in close and she wordlessly tosses that big pelt around both our shoulders. Can't see much yet, still, but I know her nose must be as pink as that little onesie. ...It gets me real bad, sometimes. This...need to pull her close and kiss her as hard as I can, until we're both bruised with it. The embers start to work their way over the wood, and in turn, feeling slowly returns to my fingers and toes.

"...I'm sorry, Abigail." I can't help it. It just doesn't feel like enough. She shifts a little closer to me, dark head leaning against my ear.

"I know, Arthur. I know."

We sit in silence awhile. The camp's irritated shuffling has died down, in time with the crackle of blistering wood, and soon we're enveloped in a pocket of peace once more. Everything seems a thousand miles away now. It's the curious dreamtime of twilight, isolating anyone foolish enough to be up at this hour. Abigail moves only to fill our cups, hunching quickly back into the comfort of the pelt once she's finished.

"...What kind of life do you want him to have?" I ask, puffing at the steam and attempting a careful sip.

"A good one." Is her immediate answer, keeping her nose close to the brim of her cup. The scent of flowers and smoke is all around us. A third scent floats beneath it all. Young and sweet.

"Got any specifics for me or am I on, uh...time-out?"

She scoffs. It's small, but already I feel a little better, after what I did.

"I want him to have...better than we have. I mean...we still have it good, all things considered. I know I have better than I did. Being pushed from place-to-place, man-to-man, like I was an ugly horse nobody quite knew what to do with." She trails off and shrugs helplessly, the words she wants nowhere near enough to hold. "Oh, _better_ , Arthur. Better. I want...I want him to grow up loved. I want him to grow up sure of himself, not feeling like the world can just whisk him away in all its ills. Whatever he wants to do, I want him to do it. No doubts. No putting up with people who don't see him for who he is."

It's a noble thought, from less-than-noble roots. Hosea once told me the prettiest flowers grow from the filthiest soil. Abigail's family had been the furthest thing from a sunny day. Father up and left her, like fathers so often do. Mother was an addict, though to _what_ remains a mystery. She was then handed off to the matriarch of a whorehouse, cold enough to make Susan look like a circus clown, from the stories I heard. The Van der Linde gang was full of interesting yarns, but that's the big thread what binds us together. A lot of orphans. A lot of wandering. A lot of sad tales.

"We all have dreams, Arthur, but it takes so _much_ to make them more than that." Her tone takes on an ephemeral touch, then. Traveling off beyond the ink blot trees. "I've...been having them about John, lately."

"Sure." I'd say I've been, too, but the only dreams I want that fool to walk into are the ones where I paint his face black and blue. Until then I guess I just dream of losing another one. "Makes sense." Abigail doesn't respond. Just takes a slow, sullen sip of her tea. "...What kind?"

"All kinds, I guess. I find his body beneath some tree somewhere, fulla holes. I find him with another woman in some city." The wind beyond the hill fills the silence, in such a way a more superstitious lot might think the hills were mourning. "I search and search and never...find him at all. I call out for him and hear his voice, but I can't quite catch up."

An ember pops out of the fire and lands on the pelt. I flick it off. The morning sun is starting to stretch, yawning over the slope in a hazy yellow that separates the branches from the dakr. Abigail peers up at me when I open my mouth, then shut it, curiosity plain in her posture. It's a question I've asked several times before, often in jest. Now it's just...honest.

"Why Marston?"

She looks back to the fire. A stiff breeze winds its way through the small gap between us, but it's suddenly too hard to lean any closer.

"...He understands me."

Tch. Sure. Marston don't understand much more than three feet in front of him. Man only ever lived in the _now_ , ever since he was a scrappy boy, and it's small wonder why a little thing like the future spooked him so badly. Voicing these thoughts is out of the question, though. I don't want to imply any sort of foolishness on Abigail's part for giving him the time of day, much less a space in her life. My heart sinks at that, a dragging ache that sits heavy in the pit of my stomach and makes a mockery of the rosehip. No...she wasn't a fool. No more than me or Hosea or Dutch. No more than Javier or Tilly. No more than _anyone_ who loved this man and had it returned so fiercely.

John Marston is more like a wolf than I'd confess to _any_ fire, with all the good and bad that comes with the claim. He's quick to defend what was his, frequently to the point of impulsiveness, and his aloof behavior has ever been an annoying contrast with his blunt tongue. It might seem a romantic comparison to other folk, comparing someone to an animal made mysterious through tall tales and terrifying encounters, but...nah. I've met more imaginative _trees_ \-- at least they dressed up once in a while -- and he is certainly not one I would call good-humored. Not without a drink or deeply familiar company, anyway.

How funny, that he is still one of the bravest people I know. Courage and foolishness were, in the minds of others, one in the same. To me they're more... _lovers_ , than an individual duality. Tugging away from one another, just as soon embracing and sighing the night away as they are snapping and hissing for a moment's peace. I wish he could say he's one of the most reliable, but that is no longer true. I thought him loyal as a wolf, once, yet here I am. Keeping his woman warm with my body heat, beneath the dead skin of one of those very animals. Poetic, to someone else. A lonely, ponderous, pathetic thing, to me.

"Here." I murmur when Abigail reaches for the kettle. She nods her thanks as I refill her cup to the brim.

That man...he makes courage seem so simple. In a fight, on the road, it never mattered. His spine was made of diamond. Facing down life's unpredictable wiles was just something that had to be _done_ , no questions asked. Denial was never John Marston's forte. Fear, to him, was a tool to guide his hand, move his feet. It never became the shackles it so often turned into for other folk. A veritable magic act by someone who never believed in the concept. Sometimes...I envy him.

Then he ran away.

Abigail's silence all this long while felt acute, at first. Perhaps waiting for one of my knee-jerk jabs at the man's character. It's then become pensive, somewhere in-between steeping our tea bags again and listening to the birds wake up around us. A thousand thoughts too murky for quick words.

"It was one night, after we...you know. When we were celebrating Hosea's safe return? He didn't leave me and go off with the guys, he...stayed. Kept me company. Couldn't remember the last time a man did that, if I'm being honest, but that wasn't the end of it. He talked to me. Asked what I thought about things and before I knew it, we'd been up all night." She interrupts herself, uncharacteristically edgy. "I'm...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say you were-"

"Nah. 's fine. I remember, I left right after. You don't need to protect my feelings anymore than I need to protect yours." Maybe I say it too fast. Maybe I _still_ regret it, coming off so cold that night when she'd stunned me, instead. She seems to chew on my words a moment, and for another moment I'm worried I've killed the mood.

"It was silly stuff, at first. His questions. Where I got my dress. My favorite kind of drink. Basic talk you'd hear at the bar. I thought to myself this was one _silly_ man, hitting on me after the fact. Then he said..." She huffs a laugh, then straightens up and clears her throat. "'Out of all the places you should be in, miss, this is probably the second to last.'" She tries to roughen up her voice after his, though it comes _nowhere_ near. My laugh bursts out of me and I have to hastily clamp my lips shut as not to wake anyone a second time.

"Good effort, _very_ good, but..." I chortle into my cup.

"Yeah, I can't. Don't know _how_ he sounds like that all the time." She flaps a hand. "Anyway. I said, 'What's the last, then?'"

Hell, probably.

"'Why, _hell_ , of course.'"

She laughs, but I can't muster up the sound, anymore. My heart's too much for my chest. Bloated and hot and so, so painful.

"Honesty and men don't usually go hand-in-hand. Those I slept with were always trying to get me to stick around, for...obvious reasons. Cheaper to keep one on than seek them out, I suppose. John asked me if I had anywhere else to go. I told him..." Her voice is growing thicker with each word. Abigail pretends to scratch at her face, fingers far too close to her eyes. "Well, I told him the _truth_ , of course. I _never_ had anywhere to go and that wasn't going to change."

I think she curses into her hand. It could also be a tear, shielded from friend and foe alike.

"We fight a lot, I know, but he...he don't look down on me like other men do. Doesn't...think I'm _just_ that life. Sometimes I think he's..." She laughs, wetly. "...too dumb to judge."

Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe some of Dutch and Hosea's hard work actually took. I give into the ridiculous weakness that death and running hasn't shaken out of me, leaning into her shoulder as she shudders and sniffles into her cup. Maybe that's why John makes me so angry sometimes. I see the slivers of something truly _great_ shining through, but it's the clawing and pushing to get to it that just shouldn't _be_. For strangers and enemies, of course...but not of his woman. Not of his child, who in a few months will start to remember the world around him, and what's missing.

"Arthur, it's..." She breathes like she's underwater. My tea is almost gone again. I set the cup by my feet, let the arm between us slip around her waist to hold her, because she still won't ask for it.

"...I know."

Abigail's face pushes against my collar, her face screwed tight with it. I lay my cheek against her head and fight down the urge to kiss her hair.

A crunch of footsteps breaks the still, Javier huddling by the fire to warm his hands. It's his turn to keep watch. Time has run off without us. The man keeps his eyes to himself, but the peace has been broken. I down the rest of my tea and dump the teabag into the flames.

"We still can sneak in another hour by my tent." She offers. I want to. God, do I want to.

"Sneaking hours and sneaking tea." I stretch out the stiffness from my legs. "Kind of criminal you turning me into?" It's more tempting than a river full of gold, but the heaviness that's settled in me is almost too hard to stand. If I don't leave I'll shed it on Abigail, and she doesn't need any more moments of weakness. "I should catch up on some sleep. What's...left of it, anyway." I stand carefully, nestling the pelt back around her shoulders, and I keep my eyes away from her face, now that the dark's leaving and taking my good excuse with it.

"Sure, Arthur." She doesn't look at me, either. "Thank you for sitting with me."

I start a new page by lanternlight, because what I'm feeling won't shut up and wait until morning's in full swing. The first few sentences tumble out of me. The next handful are ponderous, involving, blurring the rousing camp around me into fuzz. By the time I'm finishing the last few words my hand won't stop shaking. I've bled out in the wicked cold and been in the middle of shootouts that didn't get my nerves up like this. It just felt...so _real_. I could feel his tiny body go limp. The blood on my hands, sticky and dark. A trail leading up to two graves in front of a tiny house by a tiny river.

"Damn it all to _hell_."

I scratch the last sentence out, so hard I tear the paper, and curse at the retreating dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I've realized my fast typing and fast reading gives me a tendency to upload _humongous_ chapters all at once. Think I'll try a new approach, since parsing chapters is just as much a skill as editing or worldbuilding. I'll continue slicing these into smaller chunks, so the final chapter count will fluctuate a bit.
> 
> Truth be told, I'm having a lot of fun with this. I never write Westerns and I _never_ write first-person (the coveted and most often mishandled POV, alas). It's nice to stretch my writing muscles and try something new.


	3. Sweat Or Tears, You'd Do Well To Learn The Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song Inspirations: "40 Day Dream" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes + "Stubborn Love" by The Lumineers
> 
> \--
> 
> Trigger warning for discussions of domestic violence.

*****

_It might seem strange coming from a man like me, but I don't get nightmares often. My dreams are often foggy. Indistinct. Many shapes and shadows. Many voices. I wander through a mist, more often than not, and the rare time I get some sunlight I chase after fish I can never seem to catch. Been seeing a lot of animals lately, a lot of jays, in particular, though I'm not sure if that means anything special or if it's just a sign I'm spending more time outside than with folk. Once I even dreamt I was a stag, prancing through sunlit meadows only to meet my doom at the jaws of a silver-tongued cougar._

_Nightmares, though. The kind that get people screaming awake? It just ain't the shit stirring in my head, so when I do get them, they rattle me BAD. Might be they're normally deterred by the fact I sleep like the dead when I finally get around to it. That, or all the ghosts are kept nice and snug in the pages of my journal. I ain't superstitious, but I think I'll keep on writing, if that makes them happy. It certainly does me._

*

Camp funds have dried up. Don't they always?

It was never going to last. Still a right disappointment we couldn't squeeze just a _little_ more time out of it. I'd projected...eh, four or five months, with our usual frugal procedure, but just over three and we're in dire need of another big haul.

It's been the same stew again and again, testing our patience, and luxuries like coffee and alcohol have been rarer than usual. Every time we run out of something or another it's more mathwork than usual to keep from dipping into the chest overmuch. Most everyone is doing their best to earn their keep (with the _ever_ consistent exception of Uncle and Reverend, of course). Dutch and Hosea have taken turns searching for marks, though nothing as big as an unguarded train or fat coach has come our way in our isolated circle. Jenny has kept a consistent enough pattern with her furs, selling some decent enough coyote and weasel pelts to a connoisseur-type the other day. She's the only one contributing to the ledger more than I.

Javier's been doing the best he can to keep the pot full. It's a good season for fishing and hunting, so even this slow period is keeping our bellies full and spirits high. Susan has been stepping up her bark to keep things running as smooth as possible, though even _she_ has a little too much spare time to wipe down tables and brush the horses. Despite the strain, though...it's tempting to get comfortable. Tempting to think it could go like this for longer. The moment our backs our turned, though, Father Time will have the last laugh. It's that wicked fact which has me taking Penny far and wide as possible, sniffing for more.

Today is looking to be another notch on the calendar with the bag half full. The camp's hanger-ons have at least been providing moral support, if nothing else. Reverend has been singing more than Dutch's gramophone and Uncle has been working quite hard on his impression of the world's fattest bumblebee, flitting lazily from person-to-person offering corny jokes and the occasional drop of alcoholic honey.

"Need a drink, Morgan?" He asks, once he makes his lazy way around again. I open my mouth to tell him to buzz off and do a damn _chore_ , until I catch the bitter bite of coffee on the breeze.

"...Ah." I take the proffered cup and bob it in gratitude. "...Thanks."

"Cheer up, you scruffy grouch." Uncle nudges my shoulder. "Sun's shining, so should you."

I'd sooner stick my dick in a bear trap than confess it, but my thoughts _finally_ gain some traction with each new, burning sip. It's been a demoralizing week sniffing about occupied areas for marks, but the sun's finally broken through the metaphorical cloudtops; I overheard one of the sheriff's flunkies over in Valentine talking about a robbed stagecoach, stripped clean not a day ago. The suspects are what I'd hesitate to call any gang at _all_ ; just a small group of malcontents occasionally stirring trouble and retreating off into the hills before they get caught. It was apparently a good haul, because they went from having barely any bounty to being the talk of the town.

" _If the Wilsons don't get their chest back..._ " The willowy prick had stressed, looking about to blow away from the worry of it all. " _It'll be my **head**._"

At first I brushed it off as nothing worth my time. They ain't the O'Driscolls. They ain't Lemoyne hillbillies or Skinners. They're, truth be told, a _little_ more small-time than I'd usually bother with, but upon further thought...it might just be worth taking a look. Dutch and Hosea are all ears when I bring it up, breakfast and grinding stone respectively neglected as they get a shred of much-needed good news.

"What makes them a bigger deal than hunting some game and selling what you find?" Dutch asks, pragmatism warring with the curious glint in his eyes.

"Few things." I lick a stray drop of coffee from my fingers. "First? They ain't _nearly_ big enough to attract the attention of more than just local law. I mean, they were the only ones I heard it from, and I asked around. I also doubt they're more experienced than some of the ones we've come up against, if the only reputation they've got is a stagecoach with no casualties. Plus...a little intimidation can make sure they don't try anything with us in the future. _If_ they've got a drop of ambition between them." I shrug. "Lastly? I could turn one or two of them in, should I get the opportunity. Sheriff asks about the loot, I'll just tell them they stashed it somewhere I can't find."

"Hm. This is nicely thought out, Arthur." Hosea reaches for his pestle again, though not before reaching over to clap me on the back. "Here I was afraid you'd just eliminate the middleman and hold the entire town hostage."

"Ha! Don't tempt me, old man." I down the rest of my mug. "Mm. It'd certainly be a _lot_ quicker."

Dutch fiddles with one of his rings, staring off at nothing and everything in that all-at-once way of his. I peer at which one, exactly. He didn't know it -- or perhaps he did -- but his mood would always gravitate to one ring or the other. The one he stole off the O'Driscolls, if he's irritated. The one Annabelle gave him way back in the day, when he's wistful. Right now he's toying with the one he pinched off a rich (and very drunk) mayor.

"Haven't heard much about them myself, but like you said, this is small-time rabble. From the sounds of it...they're likely little more than disgruntled former farm hands and the occasional drunk too boorish to get consistent part-time work." He muses. "Could be sharpened up, with a guiding hand."

"Oh, don't tell me you're thinking of adopting _them_ , too." I swear, this man has always fancied himself some peculiar cross between Robin Hood and Moses. Any more heavenly generosity and he'd glow at night like a firefly. Those brown eyes promptly swivel over and fix me _hard_ , as if I'd tried and failed to sneak one of his prized cigars.

"For all your sketching and journaling, Arthur, you are remarkably determined to miss the bigger picture. Our numbers are sustainable, but only _just_." He raises his eyebrows and stares me down. "A few more diverse perspectives and skills would do us well."

"It's also more mouths to feed." I insist, frowning at my empty cup. "Also more strangers around the baby..."

When I look back up Dutch's expression gets a little funny. His fingers drift over to Annabelle's old ring. Hosea gives his bowl a test sniff, not taking eyes off his work.

"...That ain't entirely up to you, Arthur." He rattles around the contents. A sharp, yet calming scent kicks up into the air, mingling with the smoke into something completely unidentifiable. Ah. This ain't a topic I want to broach. Not sure when I _would_ , really.

"Never said it was." I mutter. "Just that it's probably not safe-"

"Why not do some honest work once in a while?"

Now Hosea looks up. Dutch's eyes flick over my head. We all turn as one to Abigail, her tin cup in one hand and the other tucked beneath her arm in the tent flap's light. Well, ain't _that_ an odd way to greet a trio of outlaws in the morning.

"...We ain't honest people. I mean, last I _checked..._ " I roll my eyes over to Dutch, who chortles hard enough to fill the tent with smoke.

"You think I don't _know_ that?" It's the wrong tone to take. Her brows take on a furious angle, muting the blue. "I'm saying not everything has to be so...so needlessly _risky_. There are plenty of jobs you can do that won't have quite as many chances of catching a bullet, is all."

Hosea lets out a soft sigh, neither damning nor acquiescing. That scent kicks up again, in tune with the _scrunch-scrunch_ of stone on stone. Dutch's damn cigar is working up my cravings. I reach into my back pocket for the last cigarette.

"Yeah, they also pay for shit." I lean down to flick a match against my boot heel. "Unless you got a thing for grass and bilgewater stew, I don't know what else to tell you."

A much-needed puff sends a happy tingle crawling up my shoulders. When I wave away the smoke (Hosea's lungs don't need all this) Abigail is still lingering in the tent's opening, though her anger has gone a little south. Blue eyes more a cloudy sky than a rolling ocean. She reaches in and tugs my sleeve insistently. I sigh, excuse myself and follow her out.

"Arthur, _please_." Her eyes lock with mine. That shiftiness from a few nights ago might as well be a dream. "Just do something else. That's all I'm asking."

My mouth twists of its own accord. I ain't one for praise, mind, but something about this is just a little _too_ ungrateful for my tastes. I take a second to glance around us, then lean in a little, puffing out the side of my mouth.

"Like _what _, exactly?" When she doesn't say anything I take another drag and nod. "Go on. I'm all ears. Like what?"__

"Oh, I don't know." She bounces her leg a second. "...Ranch work? Building, delivery, cleaning...that sort of thing. You've got a good horse, you're good with people..."

"So I'm a rancher, now?"

"Arthur, _stop_ it. I'm being serious."

"So am I. Didn't realize you took me for an actual cowboy."

Those blue eyes roam all about me. Pulling me apart at the seams, like women can so easily do. When they land somewhere near my hip and satchel I raise an eyebrow. ...Yeah, I can't follow them at the best of times.

"...What, Abigail?"

"Well, what about your...your art?" She offers me a tiny smile. "You're an amazing artist, you could sell something-"

She's _gotta_ be kidding me.

"Tch." I drop my stub to the ground and grind it beneath one heel. "Nobody would buy these, I just do it to pass the time."

That smile vanishes like a bird in the breeze. She throws her hands up in the air and scoffs.

"How are you so imaginative and so _ridiculous_ at the same time, Arthur?"

"Oh, I don't know, same way you're naive and hopeless about our life and what goes into maintaining it!"

"I ain't naive, _Arthur_ , I'm just using my brain for more than just firing guns and robbing every last person under the sun!"

Jesus shitlicking Christ. We could go back and forth on the depressing notes of the free lifestyle for _hours_. This ain't an argument I have time for. People need feeding, supplies need stocking and the day's already _well_ on its way. Without another word I grab my hat from their tent and make my way over to Penny, Abigail's aggrieved sigh scraping at my heels. Jenny's up for it. So's Bill. I ask Javier, but he's got another job to worry about; something about 'checking out horses' over by Emerald. I'd prefer his discretion on this task, truth be told, but beggers can't be choosers.

That only gets more true with each new day.

*****

_Staying busy is a blessing. Idle hands are forever the specialty of the Devil. I remain an attentive pupil, even as I desperately try to play hooky._

_he American dream is talked about in such lofty terms. So lofty even Dutch would lose his head in the clouds. Is this what it all means? The freedom to work our fingers to the bone? The freedom to get shot over a pack of cards or the freedom to be driven to the fringes of society under threat of a slow, lonely death? This is the sort of rubbish I can't stand to think about. This is what being busy keeps me from. Can't even pretend I got it all so bad, not with what I've seen Javier go through. Tilly. Abigail._

_What a sorry thing, this freedom business. Stolen right from our bedrolls and packaged back to us with a stamp and a smile. I can't with the false promises. I can't stand so much. I wish I had even a fraction of Hosea's gentle hope or Dutch's fervor. Tilly's stubborn optimism or Susan's sharp edges. I'm, at best, a blunt tool, ever in need of sharpening. I was too distant for Eliza and Isaac. Too roughshod and angry for Mary and her family. If my parents had lived I probably would have been too much for them, too._

_Too...I don't know. Ah, hell, this is it. The Devil writing through me. Filling me with the doubt hunting, swindling and beating keeps at bay._

_I need to get back to work._

*

"These...goddamn... _flies!_ "

It's not a bad day to go hunting. No tempestuous storm to tear my hat off and muddy the trail, though spring is still right mischevious, with the sun bearing down _hard_ the entire ride through the Grizzlies and giving us a good sweat well before we've reached our (very tenuous) destination. I snort as Bill, for the twentieth time, flails at the air. His horse isn't much doing better. Poor thing's tail has never _once_ stopped slapping its flank. Its fur is pretty thick, but little deters a horse fly on a score of its own.

"Take a bath once in a while, Bill. The flies might find you less of a five-course meal that way." Jenny quips, unbothered and regal atop Reprise. The black steed shimmers in the midday sun as glossy as a pond. I always thought it funny how folks' mounts, more often than not, looked a lot like them. It don't apply to me, of course. Penny's far prettier than I'll _ever_ be.

"Oh, shut up, Jenny. I bathe once a week!" The man snaps, hand hovering in the air for a deadly second...then coming down with a sharp _thwap_ on his horse's neck. The beast whinnies sharply, bucking up and down. "Damn it, _shit_ , sorry, boy-"

I pull out my water canteen and take a sip.

"If Brown Jack bucks you I ain't stopping."

Time is of the essence. Word is this 'gang' has been seen not too far from Valentine's boundaries. While it's not densely forested, there are enough hills and underbrush to sneak around. We pass by a few travelers, none who inspire suspicion _or_ interest on our part: a pair of sharp-suited folk probably in the business of professional swindling, a grimy vagabond who looks a touch too drunk to be riding a horse. Last one was not ten minutes ago -- a freckled hardly-adult in an oversized neckerchief who gave us one _hell_ of a stinkeye. I don't bother with any hellos or tell-offs, keeping my eyes aloft the trail and Jenny and Bill's bickering to the background.

"What the hell was _his_ problem?" Bill gripes. I snort.

"Probably caught a whiff of your procrastination. He was pretty polite, all things considered."

My reticience is rewarded an hour later: after we split the trail and start heading up the hills I spot the dottings of what looks to be a slapdash camp, just beside the winding Dakota river and flanked by enough trees to force us to move in close. I feel the tickle of instinct up my spine. This _has_ to be them. My resources are limited, but only just. Bill's the muscle. Jenny's the fine shot. We'll have to focus on getting in and out before they know what hit them.

"Hold up. Shh. Here. Let's see what we got." I spare a glance behind us for the path -- now clear again -- before tugging out my binoculars and taking a better look.

...Ah. It's just as I thought: our victims-to-be. They don't have the tacky green markings of the O'Driscolls, none of the visible savagery of some of the gangs the Old Guard encountered back in the day. Little more than a hodgepodge of small town dreck. The _rejects'_ rejects. Even Hosea's soft heart wouldn't be moved by this lot. I study their movements for a minute, just to make sure they aren't some misbegotten camp we've confused for someone else. The sight of revolvers confirms my suspicions. They're the ones.

Jenny slides up beside me as I peer through my sights, far more silent than her city roots should make her.

"Took a gander. I'm only seein' six, Arthur." One gloved hand points east. "Got my concerns about that one trottin' about nearby, could be a seventh scoutin', could be a traveler, I don't know."

"What's the plan, Morgan?" Bill reaches for one of his throwing knives, though he couldn't hit the broad side of a barn from this distance.

I look over the proceedings a moment longer. Ain't much of a plan, when it ain't much of a _mark_. Still. A foolhardy start could cost us, particularly when it comes to reputation. I won't have the Van der Lindes rising to the top of the local law's wanted list if I can help it, _nor_ seen as a pushover by anyone with sense.

"We play this right, and provided they haven't already sold their find, we can get some loot _and_ a payout for the bounty. We play this wrong and we'll just have a shootout." I wave a hand. "Jenny-"

"I got you, Morgan." Quick as a whip, she is. "What's the signal, then?"

"A, uh...fit of coughing. At least five." I take her shoulder. "But, wait...I think I got another idea."

The ol' ' _test the waters first, let loose a hail of bullets if things go wrong_ ' trick. Not a catchy title, but it gets the job done. Jenny could no doubt has already crafted a _perfect_ persona in that tricky little mind of hers to catch the gang off-guard if my words don't do the trick. As Hosea always said, the best deck was a loaded one. ...Still. I'm curious about that seventh feller.

"Think he could be a scout?" I ask. She nods firmly. "Huh. If that maybe-scout is part of this group, then..." A better scenario blooms in my mind. "...we could avoid a _lot_ of trouble with a little intimidation."

It'll be a little more waiting, but I can be _plenty_ patient if the payout is big enough. Bill mutters about it, though he doesn't have a better idea (and rarely does), acquiesing and settling back on his horse. I hardly have time to stew in bad thoughts. Not ten minutes later our instincts prove right. The titular seventh makes the rounds where the trees start to peel apart and make way for dusty trail. Too consistent to be a wanderer and a little _too_ hurried to just be passing by: it's the same feller with so many freckles I've like to confuse it for dirt splatter, neckerchief bright and silly between his flared collar. It'll be one _curious_ sunburn, if he ever gets them.

"Quick, Jenny." I hiss. "Talk to me about something." That gets me a mischievous look. She feigns deep thought for all of one second.

"Jack looks _adorable_ in blue, don't you think?"

...Of _course_ she would. The two of us mutter amongst ourselves, make-believing some involving conversation, and a few seconds after he passes us by I swivel Penny around. She nickers with complaint.

"Shh, girl." I stroke her mane. "Shh."

He's gearing up for a canter, not too quick, not too slow. All the better. I give Penny's thighs a tap and she speeds up. I cut him off in the middle of the path, pull out my pistol and point it.

"Off the horse." I smile. " _Now_."

The boy's mouth drops open, splotchy face blank with momentary shock. He even looks around him, even though there ain't much more than my posse and God's green earth to see. Then-

"... _Excuse me?_ Get off my horse? The hell do you think you're _doing?_ " It's an honest effort, I'll give him that. He's growling more than a badger in an attempt to deter me. Reminds me a little of Marston, to be honest. "This is absolutely-"

One _click_ from my pistol is all he needs to throw both hands up in the air.

"Okay. _Okay!_ I'm getting off-"

"Just stand right there, by the trail. Hurry up. No need to get shot over a polite conversation."

"All right, okay, I'm going..."

His horse (pretty gray thing) does a nervous little dance. He's cooperative, but it never hurts to be careful. The second he's got two feet planted on the ground I hop off Penny to shove him around and send a boot into the back of his knees.

" _Shit!_ " He hisses when he hits the dirt, immediately pushing back up on his hands and knees, red-faced and about to pop from the indignation. "Do you have any idea who I _am-_ "

His piss-poor attempt at regaining dignity dies to a rattle when I lean down and hook an arm around his scrawny, spotted neck.

"What I think _you're_ doing is muscling in on some taken turf." I squeeze a little tighter, and he goes still and silent as a brick. "Who I think you are ain't nearly as important. Now shut up and answer my questions. You alone?"

" _Y-Yes!_ "

"You better be, boy. I got a dozen folk hidden along these hills that don't take kindly to liars. My next question is about that group of fellers over there. You know them?" I flick my head toward the river. The boy opens his mouth...and hesitates. It's just a split second pause, but it's all I need. Oh, he _knows_ them, all right. How loyal he is will be measured in fingers. Maybe teeth, if he's the stubborn type. "Come on, now. I doubt these rabblerousers are worth your life." Each gurgle has to be gauged carefully. Don't want to haul over dead weight. "Huh?"

"...R-Right. Okay, _okay_ , just-" His nails dig into my sleeve. I relax my arm, just a hair, and he gulps like a fish. "T-They're just some folk I fell in with, after we all got fired over some _stupid_ land dispute. Big hotshot from Blackwater came over waving bonds and birthright around-"

"Yeah, see, I don't really want your sob story. I'm more interested in that coach you pilfered a day or so ago." He squeaks like a cheap toy when I tight my arm again. "Unless you don't got nothing for me and I've been wasting my _time_..."

"No, no, no, we definitely got something!" He claws uselessly at my arm again. " _More_ than something, but I can't tell you if you _choke_ me-"

Now that's more like it. I relax a bit, just enough so he can spit it out, but my patience is wearing thin. The sooner we get this over with, the better, and this little shit's _clearly_ the stalling type.

"What do you have, then?" I give Bill down the trail a nod and the man settles into his natural brutal state easily, waggling his knife in the air. "Go on, boy. Don't be shy."

"Okay. Um. W-We came across a coach, see, stuffed full of wealthy folk? Figured they had a few goodies we could pick, after we got fired and couldn't find a job. Didn't want to kill nobody." I hold back a snort. This is a soft gang, all right. More newborn than _Jack_. "We threatened them, took their goods. Trashed the coach, just to...get the message across. I-I'm sure you already know." Is he trying to play friendly with me? He must figure out it don't hold, because he returns to whimpering when I shift my arm. "Got a chest with some antiques. Go ahead, take it. You're right, it _very_ much ain't worth dying over."

My nose crinkles. From pomp and arrogance to a whining sod with few lines he won't cross if it means saving his own neck. Typical third-rate. Even from a distance Bill looks disgusted, his own lip curled like he just stepped in shit; for someone that regularly bathes in his own filth and whose standards begin and end with Dutch's word, that's truly a sight to behold. Jenny just looks bored, twirling a finger in her horse's dark mane.

"And where might we find such hard-won riches?" I might just cuff this damn kid. His eyes bulge when both of them trot up closer, clearly impatient to get things going.

"A-ah, in their camp, _our_ camp, just down that way. They've been squabbling over it for hours and hours. Not sure whether to sell it in Blackwater or Saint Denis or Rhodes." Nothing like the threat of having spilled guts to get folk, well. Spilling their guts. "Lotta buyers, but it's antiques, see, people recognize 'em, so we've been putting it off. It's _gotta_ still be in the camp, kind of hard to carry around."

"See? Could've just gone straight for 'em and saved us the trouble." Bill grumbles. His horse picks up on his mood, tossing his head with a whuff. I fix him a look.

"Would've been a gamble. Now we know for sure this lot's easy pickings, so shut the hell up and follow my lead." I look down at my captive. "...Oh. Right. Got anybody in there who cares if you die?"

"Um." To his credit, he at least thinks it over. "...Yes?"

Good enough. Time to turn him into bait and catch some fish. Even if it don't take and we end up in a tight spot Jenny will give us the distraction and extra firepower we need. Size truly ain't everything, something Freckles here would do well to figure out _sooner_ rather than later. I march the boy right past his horse -- what looks like a Thoroughbred, fidgeting nervously, unsure whether to stick around or flee -- and up where the trees start to grow a little thicker, offering him a whisper that if he so much as _twitches_ the wrong way I'll leave his head for the coyotes.

"Yes, sir." He murmurs, far more surly than he should be. I cuff him.

We leave the horses and move slowly, careful not to rustle so much as a stray leaf as we inch closer to the camp. They're an idle bunch, all right; one is snoozing against a tree, hat over his eyes and hands folded over his stomach. Another is trying and failing to get a fire to start with what looks to be wet twigs, a peer standing nearby and griping at their handiwork. I wave for Bill to take position and watch as he glides through the underbrush with menacing intent. He may be blunt as a shovel, but when he gets his mind on something he ain't half bad at it. Jenny's already long gone.

I push the boy to the ground and stick my knee into his back to keep him in place, taking out my knife.

"Not a sound." I remind him. He snuffles in the dirt like a piglet.

Two well-placed consecutive throws from Bill and two men fall near-simultaneously. It's almost _artistic_. I take out a third, who has the decency to hit his head on a low-hanging branch and knock himself out cold. It's loud enough to make a gaggle of birds pop out of the trees, squawking a storm. The time for surprise is gone. Time to get to it.

"Afternoon!" I call as I stride into the piss-poor camp, captive in tow. "Fine day for robbing, ain't it?"

It ain't _quite_ a shitshow. The two that fell are _howling_ into the trees. One rushes over to check on the feller that clocked himself and the last two scramble into position to watch me with varying degrees of shock. One of them hardly looks like he's handled a gun before, gripping it _far_ too tight and shaking so hard he could be confused for pepper. The other don't even have a gun, holding a pig sticker that'll probably stick _him_ before it pokes anyone else. I don't bother hiding my sneer. How the hell did these young fools rob an entire coach and get off nearly scot _free?_

"Who the hell are _you?_ " The last one growls. I pull out my pistol and try not to think of a scrawny teenager with angry brown eyes, as hard as packed dirt.

"You're stepping into other folks' pond! Gotta pay the toll fee."

"For heaven's _sake_ , Tom-" The one with the pig sticker hisses. He doesn't hardly look much older than the boy I've got. Did I stumble across a gang or a band of delinquents fresh out of class? "You've _got_ to be kidding me-"

"Oh, I ain't joshing!" I keep my pistol steady in the air. "Now, Bill, if you don't mind-" The man lumbers past me in a blur hardly fitting his size.

"On it." It's not like there's a lot to dig through, what with there not even being tents. An ominous _click_ fills the close space. "Don't _none_ of you move, now."

At least the one with the gun looks older, though certainly no more confident, not taking his eyes off me for a second. I try to keep my face still. ...This is one _pathetic_ Mexican standoff. If anyone fires a shot it'll be out of nerves, not bloodlust. Bill Williamson lives up to his usual reputation, hunching out from behind a narrow tree hauling a thick, red leather chest like it weighs nothing. He sends one last glower everyone's way, then takes a step back and fires at the lock.

"Bingo." He drops down and starts digging. "Seein'...watches, earrings, some sort of, er...not sure what this is, but it sure _look_ expensive..."

My charge for the day wriggles in my grip. I tighten it idly, looking over his head as the man continues to browse.

"Oh, shit. Yeah, this is good." He looks up with a rare, crooked smile. "This is good, Morgan!"

All right. That's that. I make sure to look as disaffected as possible -- not hard -- and turn to the unfortunate rabblerousers before me.

"All right. Now, none of you have to die today. We just want a little-"

My words trail off as the remaining men turn around and flee.

"You cowards!" Freckles howls. "You stinkin' _cowards!_ "

...Huh. Well. Birds of a feather flock together. Bill frowns at their retreating backs, then squints at me.

"Morgan, you want to, uh..."

"Yeah, we'll have to go get them, won't we. All in all, ain't a bad haul. Ain't a bad haul at all." I whistle for Penny. "Now stay there, I have some- _agh!_ "

Freckles tumbles out of my grasp and hits the dirt as I fumble at the handle suddenly growing out of my arm. I gape in cold fury as the boy scampers back, his wide face all the wider for surprise and triumph. The little shit just _stabbed me._

"You okay there, Morgan?" Bill growls, back on his feet with his hand on his holster. I yank the damn thing out and hiss as blood spills hot through my shirt.

"I'm _fine_ , would you shut that damn chest already and get on your horse!"

I fling it to the ground and reach for my gun. It seems to hit the bastard that he doesn't have a back-up plan _or_ his stitched-together gang, because he turns and books it a second too late. I lunge forward with my good arm and snatch him by the back of his collar. He yelps like a dog.

"Wait, _stop_ -"

One strike with the butt of my pistol and he's out like a light. It's a good _damn_ thing I paid attention to Hosea's lessons on ambidexterity. Penny trots into the clearing, slender head held high at the scent of blood in the air. Brown Jack shadows her, calm as ever. I shake my arm, just to test if anything's more off than a gouge.

"Any of them so much as _sniff_ wrong and they'll be whistling through a hole in their head."

Bill's already got his lasso out and ready. He hops on his horse and gallops off. I resist the urge to kick Freckles in the ribs and shove an arm in my saddlebag for something to tie my arm off with until we get back to camp. Boy, howdy. This could've gone so much worse and so much _better_. The soft _snap_ of a twig and I reach for my gun...only to relax. Jenny has stepped into the clearing, looking over the remains of the roughshod camp with one eyebrow arched high.

"...What'd I miss?"

*****

I think about little Jack the entire way back to Valentine.

First when I hogtie the boy properly and toss him on Penny like a sack of potatoes, still out cold from my cold clock (and more than a little stained). Again when the sheriff deputy thanks us for our hard work 'taking care of the county' and haul him into a cell, along with two of his fellers. We didn't catch the entire group -- not when one could apparently swim like a fish and went straight across the river, according to Bill -- so we don't get the entire payout. Still decent money. Jenny splits the $50 between us best she can. Bill can hardly count past his toes, so he takes his fistful with little complaint.

"How's the arm, Morgan?" He asks, making a show of licking his thumb and flicking through the bills. I reach for a cigarette, then curse. Right. I smoked my last this morning.

"It's just a scratch. How're those flies?"

"Hmph. See if I show you any _concern_ , again."

Jenny is the first to leave, no doubt annoyed by the constant leering of the deputies, and I send them a sharp look before stepping out into the light after her. My arm throbs its best through the bandage, but my thoughts remain firm, all the way through Valentine's rolling hills and back where the Grizzlies get thick and hearty. How _easily_ Jack could've turn out like that boy. Puffed up and full of bluster, ill-prepared for the world at large. Would I want him kept away from the terrors of the life, ive him what none of us had the luxury for? Should he be given the tools needed not to become this dreck?

"Penny for your thoughts, Morgan." Jenny says, mopping sweat from her neck with her lacey handkerchief. I snort.

"Har har."

"No, I mean it!"

These thoughts ain't for her. They're not even for Abigail. It's just the usual nonsense in my nonsense head, best fit for scribblings in a journal that's seen better days.

"Someone get out the med kit!" Bill roars as we trot into camp. "Arthur's hurt!"

"Pipe _down_ , Williamson, it's just a scratch." _Christ_ , this man could be more embarrassing than even my own fathers. Everyone hears, of course. I spoke of the Devil and here they both come, concerned and amused all at once. I'm hardly off Penny before Hosea is fussing.

"Come here. Let me see. How's it feelin'?"

"Well, last I checked it's still attached-" He pokes it. " _Gah!_ Don't _touch_ it, come on-"

"Sorry, Arthur. Just making sure you still got feeling in the thing. Come on, let's stop the bleeding already."

The Van der Linde shows its familial roots and transforms me from a grown man into a knock-kneed boy with a bump. Hosea ignores my scowl and mutters to himself as he cleans out the wound, then disinfects it. I don't give him the satisfaction of wincing, though _goddamn_ , do I want to. Susan hovers over his shoulder all the while, offering tincture, then thread, then bandages. The only one more practiced than he in patching me up.

"You won't be able to hunt for a while, I think." She sighs, puffing on her cigarette. My eyes trail after the smoke against my will. "Your aim won't work with this."

A long, tired sigh blows out of me. Oh, goddammit.

"Weeks of fishing, then." I start to shrug, then wince. ... _Ah_. "Great."

Once I'm done I make an excuse that I got to take a piss and go off to find Abigail. Normally I'd just follow the sound of Jack's screams, but now I have to turn the tangle of the camp into a proverbial trail. She's not over by the dishes, nor is she by the campfire. The girls are still here, so it's unlikely she's over in town wetting her whistle. ...Shit. I'll have to go and ask someone, won't I? I open my mouth to ask Tilly as she passes by. She wordlessly bobs her head south.

"...Thanks." I say, sincerely, and that odd look on her face deepens. ...This isn't good.

Abigail is sitting near the trail, back resting against one of the big, gray rocks so common around here. Her wolf pelt is draped around her shoulders, though the day's not quite so chilly yet. The longer I stare the more thick and stupid my tongue becomes. ...I messed up. I messed up _bad_. That much is clear. She's not happy to see me -- hardly even twitches to acknowledge I'm here -- and her brow is pinched in a way that can't be blamed on a headache. Time to give her what I found and leave her be.

"Hey, uh. Abigail."

Her head turns a little. She doesn't look at me. I clear my throat.

"Got a decent take. Bounty and the loot, uh. Got a little extra you can use around, actually, should you or Jack need it. Ten dollars." Abigail's scowl could be sniffed on the breeze. She turns a little more to look down her nose at my hand, but otherwise doesn't budge. My teeth grit. "Oh, sorry, I catch you at a bad time?"

Her eyes flick up to my face. Blue and stony.

"You're not his father, Arthur."

I slowly lean back.

"...You sure about that, Abigail?"

That stony look cracks. She shifts, as if fighting the urge to leap up and yell right at my face.

"Don't you _dare_." My stomach twists at the pain lacing her tone. Almost as much as the disdain in what she just said. "Don't you dare, Arthur!"

The bills crumple audibly in my grip. Oh, _now_ it's too damn much? This woman never hesitated to stick a feller where it hurts. Rake them open until they were sopping, one barbed word at a time. For a moment I think I might do the same. Tug out her dirty laundry and snap it out to dry where everyone can hear. Sure enough, anger takes ahold of me. There's nothing else but the hurt.

"I hate to break it to you, Abigail Roberts, but you're not in much position to turn down _handouts_. You think Jack's going to know the difference between one sorry excuse for a man and another?" I almost want to throw the money at her feet. I won't. That's too much like the old days and I _won't_ cross that line. Instead I shove it out to her, right in front of that proud nose, and growl, "This is some _ridiculous_ pride you got."

"It ain't _pride_ , Arthur Morgan!" She slaps my hand away. It's only my furious grip that keeps it all from blowing in the wind. "It's just _sense_. Sense you seem hellbent on throwing away. There are a hundred other things you could've done instead of stirring shit with wanted outlaws this side of the border!" She swipes a hand through the air. "Instead you go and get yourself _stabbed-_ "

"Don't you take that goddamn tone with me. I ain't Marston, some thickheaded _fool_ you have to whip back into shape with a quick word!"

"At least he knew when to call it quits!" Now she lunges to her feet, thrusting a finger into my chest. "That's exactly what I'm saying! There are a lot of at leasts I could pull with him, but I thought more of you! I thought...I thought you could, just..."

"Just what, Abigail?" I push against that finger and loom over her, not at all hard when she hardly bumps against my chin. "Seems like you just want to kick me down, then rile me up, huh?"

"Oh, there you go! See, that's what I'm talking about. At least he had _some_ control over his ridiculous temper!"

" _Well, at least I'm still here!_ "

It comes out like a gunshot. Abigail takes a step back, shaking with it, fists clenched tight by her sides. My chest heaves, heart pounding like I've run a mile and a half, and something hot bumps behind my eyes. I reach up with my good hand -- bills wrinkled and sweaty -- and point a trembling finger.

"I'm doing this for _you_ and _Jack_. I'm doing this for the family, for...for our future. You think I want to be out there, running and gunning and putting my neck on the line for money that may or not _be_ there?"

The woman's mouth screws up with a silent scream. Her fists tremble. Lift up...then lower again. I've already had the last word, but anger's not done with me yet.

"You gonna hit me? Huh? Slap me around like you do Marston at the edge of the camp where you think we can't see?" Her expression goes faint. Completely off-balance. Hot, nasty satisfaction burns in my chest. "Didn't think so." I grab one of her hands and slap the money in it, then close her fingers around it. "Here. Do what you want."

She doesn't yell at my back. Doesn't throw the money away. It's another victory, in a day where there could've been none at all. When I leave her by that rock...I feel little more than empty.

I don't see Abigail at the stew pot. I turn down Javier's offer to play cards and ignore Davey when he makes a joke about me bleeding out of more than just one cut. I do, however, pester Uncle for one of his cigarettes with a not-so-subtle implication that he owes me for last time. Soon the entire camp gets the hint and I'm left to my own devices by my cot, smoking and brooding the night away by lanternlight. Journaling is going to look a little rough with my arm out. I'm ambidextrous, but not like Hosea. I'm _nothing_ like Hosea, really, though he'd probably tell me that's a fortunate thing.

I glance over at the campfire one more time for a familiar bun, then look back down again. Today could have gone a lot worse...and it could have gone a lot better, too. I try to think of something to write.

Anything to fill the hole in my chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I love Red Dead Redemption. I'm tired and tossing this up here probably not as polished as it could be, but fuck it.


End file.
